


The bowels of London

by Jobooksandcoffee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Villain Meeting, Did I say happy ending?, Do Not Copy To Any Other Site!, Happy Ending, He is in awe, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, Light Angst, Love at First Sight, M/M, Men who can Talk, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock is a bit hurt, bit of jealousy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:00:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25833904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jobooksandcoffee/pseuds/Jobooksandcoffee
Summary: Lost. Did he follow Mike's directions? Could he make it to the avenue? That wrong turn put John in a situation he couldn't ignore. He had to help. That decision changed everything. He lost his cane and he lost his heart on the spot. He met the most amazing person, and he wastes no time. The person is a gorgeous, genius, mad young man? John is not going to let that get in his way. He will make sure it is the two of them, against the rest of the world.
Relationships: Mor/Mor, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 69
Kudos: 75





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dovahlock221](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dovahlock221/gifts).



> This little story is a gift for my wonderful Beta, First Ever Reader and person I am proud to call a friend, [ Dovahlock221.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dovahlock221/pseuds/Dovahlock221) My eternal gratitude also to my Beta (and so much more) [ Loveismyrevolution ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loveismyrevolution/pseuds/Loveismyrevolution) Thank you both for your continued support and friendship. Love you! These are two very talented Authors, Artists, Video Editors and Visual storytellers. Their work is fantastic! You will most certainly find something to cherish. Give them your love, fans!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lost? Alone and no way to communicate. Did he take a bad turn, or did Mike give him the wrong directions? John is walking through the worst part of London, just getting to the avenue. Then there is an incident, he can't stay away from. Many against one, he has to help. He meets the most amazing, fantastic person. He is in awe. Can't resist this gorgeous, genius, mad person. That he is also a man turns out to not be an issue. John will listen to Sherlock's deductions and ideas. He will give him a place to stay. Help him take care of his health issues. It will become clear, that for John, Sherlock is quickly becoming the most important person in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This little story is a gift for my very first reader, beta and whom I proudly call a friend, [ Dovahlock221 .](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dovahlock221/pseuds/Dovahlock221) A thank you to my dearest [ Loveismyrevolution ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loveismyrevolution/pseuds/Loveismyrevolution) These two lovely lifesavers are very talent story tellers, writers, video editors in their own

“Hey there sweetie, you again? You looking for some companeee?” she slurred. 

Alcohol? Drugs? Both? God how could he be so lost? Bloody phone ran out of battery, couldn’t even call a cab. He thought he had followed Mike’s directions, but then again he had been distracted, wondering just how much more could he possibly stretch the small amount of money he had left, before having to go beg Harry to take him in. Would she even accept him? He just had to get this job! Now he had ended up alone, in what looked like the worst place in the whole of London. He had been around this corner twice already. Shit.

He turned right, remembering he had heard somewhere people tend to head in the direction of their dominant hand, and if he had, it hadn’t helped him at all. Not that the view was any better. He had apparently left Sex Worker’s’ Corner for Drug and Alcohol Street, where the men eyed him with hate and distrust. John tried to hold himself straight, but his shoulder wound was still painful, and the anxiety was making his leg even more uncooperative than usual. He knew that he looked even worse than he was feeling; an old man at 30, invalidated home, no family, no job, hospital issued cane, clothes from the second hand shop. The men fortunately lost interest in him, as he continued his straight line, hopefully out of there, towards… well, anywhere else, were there were lights, and buses, and people who didn’t want to sell him sex or drugs, or maybe see him dead.

He almost made it, could see a big intersection some few blocks up, when he heard the indisputable sound of a fight. There was a low baritone speaking in a mocking tone, and two distinct voices with foreign accents growling back:

“So after all that talk about the posh boys being fairies, you were just gagging for me? How did you even keep your schwanz in your pants, you groBer idiot?” 

Then came the unmistakable sound of flesh on flesh, a man on the wrong side of the fists and the laughter of the assailant’s companions. Many against one. John could just walk by, that lit avenue was beckoning to him, but the injustice of it made him take a better look. Three burly men, one administering the pounding, two holding the owner of the baritone down. The person was more of a boy than a man; skin and bones, unruly mop of hair who had the nerve of having a smirk on his face even as he got hit. 

“If you want what’s in our pants, you gonna get it, you gor!” said the assaulter. Heavy set, taller than the boy, the older man looked a bit like an well-aging wrestler. He signaled to his pals, one of them, the youngest, short, slim and wiry, holding the boy’s arms, the other, older than John and taller, going for his jeans. Now the boy’s face paled, he started to kick about.

“Not talking anymore, schatz?” said the man. “You don’t like me to share you with my friends?”

When the boy struggled at that and the man behind them succeeded in taking down the boy’s jeans, John ran towards them, raising his cane in his hand and jabbing the man on the back, hard. The man screamed, and let go of the boy, while the other two came to his aid. For a moment, John thought the would-be victim had run off, but he had just taken a moment to pick up his trousers.

John used the cane as a baton, having hit the first man on the head hard enough to knock him out, now he was fighting the two other men. The boy came out of the shadows. Free of his attackers, he tapped the man he had been talking with on the shoulders, threw what looked like a small baggie at his face, surprising him, and connected a good right to his jaw. 

John used his cane to pull his distracted assailant by his knees to the floor, where he sat on him and proceeded to punch him twice knocking him out cold. He then observed the boy, ready to spring up and help him. 

The boy deflected the older one’s punch, and hit him on the kidney instead. Before the big man could take a breath, the boy clapped the man’s face, pulling his ears, punched his jaw, and delivered two hard punches to his solar plexus. As the man wobbled trying to catch his breath, the boy hit his jaw again, dislocating it. Then he took a step back, raised both his arms, almost like a dancer, getting ready to twirl, and brought them down forcefully, while delivering a powerful kick to the man’s lower chest, rendering him unconscious. 

There was a moment of silence, as the two looked at each other. John was amazed at what he saw. A young man, couldn’t be older than 20, in a white t-shirt that floated about him and jeans that had seen better days ages ago, rail thin arms, full of track marks. Eerie, beautiful eyes, ringed with blue, green and yellow, dilated, as their owner was high as a kite. 

One of the men groaned, and the boy turned around and bolted. John took a moment to think of the best way to get out of the alley, when the creature came back, took his hand, and scolded him, his nose scrunched and his brows furrowed 

“Captain! Run! Do you want to be beaten up?" The being started running, pulling John along. 

“How did…? Who are…?” He started, but he couldn’t well run and talk. Not with this ethereal junkie pulling him along. 

They ran beyond the light filled avenue, the boy pulling him along as if he had forgotten about his existence, until they were clearly in a better area.

They finally stopped to take a breath. “That… that was the most ridiculous thing I have ever done!” John said as he caught his breath, but he was smiling.

“I don’t believe that, Captain. You invaded Afghanistan!” laughed the boy.

“How do you know that!” John demanded. “And who are you?”

“The name is Sherlock Holmes. You saved my honour. Allow me to invite you to dinner.” He winked at John. Winked!

That gave John’s chest a burst of feelings unknown. He laughed. “You will invite me to dinner, Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes, and very good food indeed. Aren’t you hungry?”

“Starving, but will you tell me how you know I’m a Captain?”

“Easy, I saw your dog tags as I knocked Strauss down. But that was secondary. I could tell you were army by your stance, the remains of your haircut, your army hospital issued cane. You were in Afghanistan, as proved by your tan, only on your hands and face, not extending down to your chest, and because your tan said either that or Iran, and when I said Afghanistan you did not correct me. Your limp is psychosomatic, as you forgot your cane and ran with me, your shoulder was shot through, limiting your range of movement. You came back to England not long ago, as your tan has not faded. You have little to no money, as proven by your clothes, old and worn, but obviously your best, as you used them to a successful interview to work at St Bartholomew’s hospital, most probably staying afterwards for a cuppa in the cafeteria with Stamford, smart chap of your same age, your childhood friend from good old Edinburgh.” 

This monologue was delivered with speed and conviction in the eyes of his new companion.

“That was - amazing!” John was definitely in awe.

The boy, Sherlock, blinked repeatedly, then said, “You think so? Amazing? That’s not what people usually say.”

“What do they say?”

“Piss off.” Both men laughed. “Did I get it right?” Sherlock asked, looking at John intensely.

“Almost everything. Mike and I grew up in Winchester though, not in Edinburgh.”

“Ah! There’s always something! It’s Molly who is from Edinburgh! Must have been the punches. Well, come on. Time to eat.”

[ Weezer - Da Vinci ](https://youtu.be/rtJAsvzKKnQ)

To John’s surprise, Sherlock took him into a very nice Italian restaurant. Even more surprising, the owner welcomed them in, hugging Sherlock tightly, dirty, smelly and bloody as he was. Angelo skipped the menu, brought them a bread basket and salad, a bottle of wine. Sherlock poured for John, but not for himself. The waiter brought them an enormous plate of lasagna and another of seafood and pasta in vodka sauce. At the look in John’s eyes, Sherlock explained he had saved the man’s life by proving he had been betting on underground fight matches at the time he was accused of killing a man. In reality he was the promoter of the illegal fight club, and Sherlock fought there, when his overactive mind and restless body needed an outlet. 

As he listened to him talk about criminals, and finding clues, and how to hide in plain sight, John took the time to really look at Sherlock. He doubted he had ever seen a more beautiful human being, and he had honored his lady’s man title of “Three Continents Watson” extensively. Although, lately there had been none of that. He had never been attracted to men, or never attracted enough to do something about it. Harry was the gay member of the family, and she had been out since she was a teen. There had been something with his superior officer in the army, but never anything physical. So why did this young man before him… enchant him so much? Why did he feel as if he couldn't bare to leave him? Obviously homeless, obviously a junkie. Yet there was something unmistakably… posh about him. Beautiful, evidently, but a beautiful disaster. So different from any other person he knew. John licked his lips looking at the man’s pink, pointy upper lip, the full, bottom one. He cleared his voice, and tried to keep up his end of the conversation.

The boy, no, Sherlock, seemed rapt. He listened and looked and John had never felt so… seen before. Sherlock asked questions no one else had thought to, such as what kind of side effects had the medicines he received at trauma center had on him (the ongoing hand tremors) What did he think would help him with the PTSD? (Getting back into action? Not happening with his leg and his shoulder). Was he planning on moving closer to Barts now that he had a job? (John could barely afford his current bedsit).

John asked him: “Are you alright? Anything need medical attention?”

“I might have a few scrapes, some bruising.” Sherlock admitted.

“Well, do you have a… safe place to spend the night? A girlfriend’s flat, maybe?”

Sherlock focused on John’s eyes, laser like. “Girlfriends… not really my area.”

Why did that answer make him happy? “A boyfriend’s place then? It’s all good, you know.”

“Yes, I know. No boyfriend. I’ve been busy trying to get my business running.” Sherlock kept staring at John.

“Oh? What business is it?”

“One I made myself. I will be a consulting detective. The Yard already consults me when they are out of their depth. Which is always. I just found myself... suspended, due to health issues.”

John looked pointedly at Sherlock’s arms. “So you are the only Consulting Detective? In the world? Isn’t it lonely?”

“I’ve only recently started to consider that might be an issue I should look into. Do you have a place where you are safe? Would you be interested in sharing a flat in Marylebone?”

“You have a prospective flat in Marylebone?”

“Yes. The landlady owes me a favor.”

John laughed. “Does she also run an underground fight club?”

“No, I ensured her abusive, drug lord, American husband was sentenced to death, for eliminating his competitors. She promised to rent me a flat, once I procured a co-renter. If you feel up to it, we could go see it in a week.”

“A week?”

“I must tend to the same health issues that got me suspended.”

“Drugs, Sherlock?”asked John. The idea of it saddened him.

“Cocaine, John. Lestrade won’t let me work cases unless I’m clean, and Mrs Hudson prefers tenants that are not junkies.”

“If you can stop, just like that, why were you in the streets?”

“The best way of successfully acting a part, is to be it. I needed to be an addicted, homeless, youth. I was working a case. Those Germans are trafficking young homeless people. I needed to attract them and infuriate them to get information.The DI doesn’t know who they are. I saw them all, know their names. I can identify them. I was also giving the government the finger.”

“The government?” laughed John.

“My brother has a minor position in the government that allows him to stick his nose in my business. When he forbade me to work cases, I retaliated by buying drugs with his money. I traveled quite a lot. Visited the neighboring countries he frequents, to get him to realise I can slip through his fingers as wanted. Now, I believe it’s time to focus on showing him I can be what I claimed.”

“Well, since you have invited me to be your flatmate, do you want to come over to mine, until you can move into the other flat?” John asked with a smile.

“Do you understand the danger you are putting yourself into? I am a junkie, a psychopath and am continually being looked for by the worst of London’s elements.”

“Yet you came back to rescue me, a washed out war doctor with nothing but the clothes on his back, and a prospect of a job, you feed me and offer to share a flat with me? Do you realise how sad and boring my life has been since I was incapacitated? How good it felt to help you? You said I’m in danger? I tell you, it was about time.” And the two men smiled at each other.

So John took Sherlock to his tiny bedsit. Sherlock took a long shower, putting on some of John’s pajamas, that fit him loosely and were ridiculously short on his limbs. They set an extra mattress on the floor next to John’s bed, and John introduced Sherlock to James Bond, as the incipient Consulting Detective stopped his 7% solution usage cold turkey. And when he spiked a fever, John covered his body with cool, wet rags when he was sick, John made him some ginger tea to settle his stomach, and when the cravings hit him hard they turned on the telly to the “Great British Bake Off” to fight with the cast of the show. Or John would quiz Sherlock about medicine which he knew about, quite a lot. He quizzed him on pop culture which he knew nothing about. John also made Sherlock listen to modern music he liked, while Sherlock made him listen to classical. He also discovered Sherlock could talk non-stop. Initially, about everything under the sun. John then redirected, and they ended up sharing much of their pasts, and getting to know each other, which was something John had never done before as quickly or intensely, with a new friend. 

A couple of days later, John got the call that he actually got the job at Barts. He was nervous about leaving Sherlock alone in the flat. It had been touch and go that third day, John resorting to showing Sherlock his diary, and writing up their meeting to amuse him. 

“Go, I’ll be fine.” Sherlock told him, while splayed out in John’s robe. “I’ll entertain myself reading your medical textbooks.”

John went to work, met his fellow doctors and the registrar, Sarah Sawyer, who was precisely his type of lady. Pretty, with a dry sort of humor, smart as a whip. She checked him out appreciatively, flirted openly, touching his shoulder, taking his arm to walk him through the facilities and calling him to have lunch with, supposedly to talk shop, but conversing about everything else as well. John was happy to interact, but was surprised about how reserved he was being. His first thought was of Sherlock. How wonderful he was. How much smarter, how much more interesting and beautiful than anyone else. God, what was his life?

He was a bit upset, therefore, when he came back to his flat, takeout in hand and celebratory ginger beer, to find a man in there with Sherlock. A tall bloke, well taller than him, shorter than Sherlock, silver hair, friendly brown eyes, and a smirk, when Sherlock said, “Ah, John! I was starting to worry you had gotten lost again.” Then proceeded to go back to looking at whatever the bloke had brought for him.

“Hello there mate! I’m D.I. Greg Lestrade. I’ve just heard an earful about you!” At this Sherlock glanced up at the man and rolled his eyes. He was still dressed in John’s t-shirt and had added his washed, though sorry, blue jeans. 

“Graham came to see if I’ve really cleaned up, and to give me cold cases, as a prize.” 

He spoke harshly, but John had the sense it was true. He shook the D.I.’s hand. His offer of tea was accepted, and as John made it, Lestrade went back to showing Sherlock something in one of the files. John saw friendship and familiarity, and felt what he knew to be intense jealousy. Not mitigated by the fact the older man wore a ring. He obviously knew Sherlock well.

When John saw him out, Lestrade took a good look at him, “I’m so glad he’s alright. He’s been back in London for quite a while, so when he didn’t call or come around, I got worried. Knew he was up to no good. Mad that I kicked him out, but the ‘no cases while high’ rule works well for him, you know? I’m tickled he found a friend. Let me give you my number.” 

As they exchanged numbers. John asked, “So, you’ve known him for long?”

“Yeah. Couple of years. Picked him up...uh, took him off the streets. Family issues that one. Some, uh, medical conditions; you being a doctor, I guess, is for the best.” Lestrade looked a little uncomfortable, then cleared his throat and said, “Listen, maybe we should go for a pint next week, if you’re still around.” Lestrade offered.

“Why wouldn’t I be? Well, actually I might not. We are supposed to move into Baker Street at some point.”

“What, at Mrs. Hudson’s? Oh, that will be great! She loves Sherlock, bless her heart!” Lestrade seemed genuinely happy. Then his expression clouded again. “John, I know I shouldn’t say it, but be careful with him? I don’t know what this between the two of you is, and it’s none of my business. He’s strong, and stubborn, and a veritable genius, but he doesn’t know anything about friendships, or, ahem, affairs of the heart. Don’t hurt him, ok? Just, make sure he understands what this is.” 

John had nodded and shaken hands with the D.I. As to what exactly was going on between him and Sherlock; how could he explain it to him, if he didn’t know himself? Sherlock had quickly become one of the, who was he kidding, _the_ most important person in his life. The chats they had, late night or over dinner, he hadn’t had the likes of with anyone else. The things he had shared, the things Sherlock had shared with him, John had certainly never shared with any of his girlfriends. Friendship? Definitely. Affair of the heart? The heart? Sherlock had told him he was not into women, so yeah, he was gay. But John? Three Continents?

“John? Are you coming back, or did Lestrade scare you away with his boring conversation?” Sherlock, his curls like an almighty halo, John’s t-shirt on him, slim fit.

John couldn’t contain his smile. “Coming, your Highness, keep your shirt on!”

“Why would I take it off? Aren’t we about to have dinner?” asked Sherlock, his expression uncomprehending.

As the next couple of days went by, a new word was added to the flat’s vocabulary; “Bored!”. Sherlock had run out of cold cases, Lestrade was out of town with his kids, and the genius had already experimented with spices, cleaning detergent and different kinds of tobacco products to produce numerous types of ash, while John kept up as many locum hours as he could.

John had promised to go by 221, where Sherlock said he had already left some of his things, and retrieve his laptop, thinking Sherlock’s self imposed house arrest would be coming to an end soon. At the moment, he was having lunch with Sarah again, while a pretty blonde nurse sat at a nearby table and made eyes at him. 

He got a call, the number of his elderly neighbor from the first floor flashing on his screen.

“Mrs Lewis? You alright?” He made an ‘I’ll be right back’ sign to Sarah.

“It’s me John…” said Sherlock and his voice was all wrong. It immediately made John’s heart heavy and he felt chilled.

“Your neighbor was kind enough to lend me the phone. Could you… would you come home?” His voice was low, broken. “If I go out, I might get - get lost.”

“I’m on my way, don’t. Wait for me, I’m coming Sherlock. You are not alone.” John said fiercely.

John left, not bothering to go back and tell Sarah, but concentrating on finding a cab. What had happened? John had noticed from the start how hard it was for Sherlock to ask for help. They had been bickering this morning, but in jest, John had seen Sherlock’s half smile as he left. Now his voice had been filled with sorrow, not the posh arrogance he affected when ordering John around. ‘I might get - get lost.’ Lost, back to the streets, back to the drugs. Not happening! In the taxi, in his distress, he thought to text Sarah, citing a family emergency. 

John went straight to Mrs. Lewis, but Sherlock had left. “Such a handsome young man you have, John! I could have sworn you were, how do you young ones say it nowadays, straight? But I can see how you two are good for one another.” John murmured some hurried thanks and went to his flat. 

He called out for him, but heard him before he saw Sherlock; soft muffled thumps as his head hit the sofa arm. He hugged his knees, making himself the smallest he could. John approached slowly. 

“Sherlock? I’m here. I’m here…” Love. He had wanted to say love. Then he sat next to him, put his hand on the back of his neck to stop him from hitting his head. 

“You came, John. You actually did.” 

“Of course I did. I said I would. What happened?"

Sherlock looked up at him, red rimmed eyes. “Oh nothing new. My brother came to visit, and remind me that he is the one constant in my life, constant pain in the arse. Mother has given up on me, for leaving University, didn’t even ask how I was when he told her he found me. Mycroft said I’ll inevitably end up in rehab, or worse, if I insist on ‘playing around at that detective thing.’”

“Playing around? Is he mental? Has he not ever spoken to Lestrade? He values your help, seeks you out for it! And when those tossers in University made your life hell, did your family help you!? Your brother is no longer the only constant in your life, Sherlock. I got you now. I’m on your side.” John declared, feeling red hot anger against this brother of Sherlock's.

“He said you just don’t know me yet. I have been remarkably good since we met. Mycroft said, when you know the real me you will leave, like everyone else. I'm not like normal people. I’ve been... not good, John. When I traveled, I lived in the slums, on the streets, I did drugs, I did things for the drugs, stealing, cheating...You’ll be disappointed in me, of my past. You will tire of my dedication to the Work, of my experiments, my social failures. You will want… women, and move away, and I’ll be alone again.” Sherlock whispered and rocked as he did.

John’s temper flared, “I would like to give that brother of yours a piece of my mind! What a git! I do know the real you, I’ve seen you at your worst, I’ve seen you with Angelo, and with Lestrade, deducing people, solving old crimes no one else could. I have a past of my own, and I assure you, I had times when I have been far from good. I have a messed up family, too. Listen to me Sherlock: I. Am. Not. Leaving. We are moving into Baker Street, where you will be the World’s Only Consulting Detective, I will be your only colleague, and your blogger, because people should know what you do for their safety.”

“What about women? If you fall in love with someone, you will most certainly want to live with her.” Sherlock looked at him out of the corner of his eye, while trying to appear nonchalant. 

“I am not looking for any woman, Sherlock. At the moment, I’m quite content with the things we have been planning.” John had to forcefully stop himself from saying too much, from confessing he had the wildest fantasies about his flatmate, seemingly having abandoned the notion that he was supposed to not feel attracted to him, ‘like that’, because Sherlock was a man.

John did, however, raise his hand a bit and played with Sherlock’s curls a little, hearing Sherlock sigh and press his head further in his hand. They stayed like that for a bit, then, when Sherlock had calmed, they decided to go out for a walk, eating at a small, cozy cafe for dinner. As they walked back to the flat, while Sherlock animatedly talked about the trajectory of bullets and the possibilities of surviving different shots, John realized for the first time, that he did not have a limp. In fact, he had never missed his cane, hadn't seen it since the night he had found Sherlock.

[ Gavin DeGraw _...Sets the City on Fire (Lyric Video)](https://youtu.be/hT_STFPVaE4) (Sorry Mr DeGraw- In my head, John sings "He Sets The City On Fire" Please excuse the wrong pronoun!)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have started their friendship in an epic way! Now, after the fight, and the chase and the sobering up, John has a job. Mike is sorry he gave him the wrong directions. He takes John to meet Molly Hooper. John joins Sherlock on a case and witnesses him working! The genius is upset, because John hasn't answered is calls. There has been some misunderstandings, but they can talk them out.  
> Then, on their last day, someone takes their sweet old neighbor's bag. What starts as a robbery quickly becomes something worse, John's quick thinking allows him to stay close to Sherlock. Who is this person? How does he know Sherlock? How does he know John? WHAT??  
> Remember dear readers, happy ending. The game is on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dear betas [ Dovahlock221 ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dovahlock221/pseuds/Dovahlock221) and [ Loveismyrevolution ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loveismyrevolution/pseuds/Loveismyrevolution) deserve so many thanks and love from me, for being the best friends ever. Please check out their work right here on AO3. As you read my story, remember, I tend to make last minute additions, so mistakes you see are Not my Betas' fault.

[ Young Love - Eli Lieb ](https://youtu.be/2w9CrQGVyak)

The next day was an odd one for John to say the least. It started out by meeting Mike Stamford, for the first time since he had gotten the job.

“John! So Sarah did hire you. That is great. You alright? After you left, I had an impression that I may have given you the directions wrong. I tried to call you, but your phone wasn’t in service.”

“Oh! Yeah, I was offered sex for a price, fortunately ignored by the drug trade, and got into a fight to save a bloke from being hurt.” John said.

Mike laughed and then said, “Listen, I was thinking about what you said; that you would need a flatmate, to make ends meet. I know a bloke who has his sights on a sweet place in Marylebone. He’s something of an eccentric genius, bit of a scientist, and maybe a bit anti-social, but I consider him a good lad. He also needs a flatmate. Too bad I’ve been having trouble finding him lately.”

John was shocked before saying, “Tall man, lanky, hair a mess of curls, rude, posh, quite ehem good looking?”

Mike looked at him, open mouthed. John smiled and shook his head. “You were going to introduce me to Sherlock Holmes?” He laughed as Mike looked blown away. “Of course you were.”

“You’ve met Sherlock? Who introduced you? What did you think of him?” Mike’s face was… hopeful?

“I told you; I saved a bloke from being hurt; that was him. He’s staying at my bedsit til Baker Street is ready. Then we’ll be flatmates there.”

“Oh God, John! All that was true? So are you two... getting along? I like Sherlock, but he’s not very successful with human interactions.” Mike said, a tentative smile on his face.

“We are getting along just fine. He invited me to work cases with him. I’m going to do it.” John said, and saw Mike’s smile widen.

“Let me introduce you to the forensic. She’s been friends with him for a while. I think I heard her mention he was coming around today. I believe she’s let him work in the morgue after hours.”

Molly Hooper greeted him with a fake smile, when Mike said, “Molly, meet Sherlock’s new flatmate, our new locum, Dr John Watson!”

“Dr Watson, good to finally meet you, Dr Sawyer has a lot to say about you.” Molly said with a smile that did not reach her eyes, her handshake weak and cold. “So you are his new flatmate? Odd, he didn’t say anything about that to me, just wanted to check out that suicide victim.” She looked John over, not particularly in a nice way.

“Well, maybe he was here more in a business capacity.” John said amicably.

“How long have you been sharing a flat,?” she asked, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Going on two weeks, ever since we met, practically. We’re moving to Baker Street over the weekend.”

“Such a short time for that bold a move.” said Molly. She, unlike Mike, was not happy at all with the situation.

“Maybe we are just bold kind of blokes…” John said smoothly, “... as we’ll both be working cases and I’ll be writing them up.” Oh John recognised Molly was jealous. It was apparent Sherlock had not made his orientation clear to her.

“I heard you were dating Sarah, doctor Watson? I mean, wouldn’t that interfere with your availability for Sherlock? His cases, of course.”

“Nope, not dating anyone. Plenty of time for the cases. And for Sherlock.” he said, a bit alarmed at the force of the possessiveness that immediately took over, at this woman talking about Sherlock.

The encounter had left him a little jealous in spite of knowing Sherlock was not attracted to women. He didn’t like the idea of Sherlock going to the morgue to be ogled by Molly Hooper. He got home, hoping Sherlock was in a stay in mood, so they could be close. When he got there, Sherlock wasn’t in, nor had he left a note. 

When John had enough of waiting around, he decided to go over to Baker Street, in the hopes the git might be distracted by some kind of experiment. Just in case Sherlock had gone visiting his old haunts, John took his gun with him. He decided to take a chance and call Greg.

“Oi John! Why didn’t you answer Himself’s texts? He even called you, and you didn’t respond. Now he’s in a major state! I think he’s reduced Anderson to tears.”

“Sherlock doesn’t have a phone!” John said indignantly.

“Of course he does! And a website, not that us mere mortals can make any sense of that. Why don’t you get your arse over here, John. I’ll pay the cab, just come.” begged Lestrade.

As he got in the cab, John looked at his phone and found the problem. Harry had set unknown numbers to hidden. He now saw texts from one number.

-John, there has been another suicide. Come immediately to Covent Gardens Conference Center. SH

-If convenient. SH

-If inconvenient, come anyway. SH

After 10 minutes:

-John, one should not say one is available for cases and then abandon a colleague. SH

-If you were having second thoughts… SH

Voicemail: (tense voice) “John, it’s Sherlock. I’m calling because you stated you wanted to assist in cases. It is fine if you can not at the moment, though an answer would be appreciated. If you have chosen not to participate at all, an answer would still be appropriate.”

Oh the git, didn’t he know that where he went, John would follow?

Finally, the cab made it close to the Convention Center. John opted for paying the driver and just running the last two blocks. There was a police line, and some officers standing guard. He approached the group of officers. “Excuse me, I’m looking for D.I. Lestrade? He asked me to come.”

A beautiful woman turned and gave him a scorching once over. “Dr Watson?”

“Yes!” he said, smiling but impatient.

“Follow me. Benson, is the Freak still up there with the guv?”

“Can’t you hear him from there? He most certainly is!”

“Hey!” protested John, “Who are you calling ‘The Freak’?”

“Sherlock Holmes, your… colleague. You seem like a decent bloke, why would you work with a psycho that gets off on murders and suicides and anything bloody?”

“Do. Not. Call. Sherlock Holmes a freak or a ‘psycho’ in my presence ever again, if you do not want me to report you and demand you go through sensitivity training.” Captain John H. Watson said in a calm, dangerous voice.

“Oi! Look at you all normal like. Who would think he got his talons in you? Fine, Dr Watson. Your _Mr Holmes_ is behind that door, with Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

John heard him before he saw him. This time it was the Consulting Detective in action, genius, proud and posh.

“How can Lestrade ever aspire to solve a crime if your so-called team is intent on destroying the evidence? Why move the body before he, or better yet I, can get a proper look at it?” Sherlock barked.

When John saw him, his heart skipped a beat; gone was the junkie, the waif that had been sharing his life with John. A man stood in his place, one with curls perfectly tamed, in an obviously bespoke black suit, a slim fitting, deep red shirt, with one top button open that showcased a long, creamy looking neck. When their eyes briefly met, the side of him that had been subdued since he had been incapacitated twitched back to life and, oh, wasn’t that a revelation?

“We follow procedure. Everything has been photographed.” Anderson? whined.

“Photographs will not allow you to discern the tiny particles of powder the man has on the lapel of his shirt. No, it is by observing the position of the speck, tracing it’s most probable trajectory that you can deduce it is a remainder, not of sugar from a donut the man did not consume, but of the poison his dying body tried to but could not effectively rid itself of.”

Anderson looked stunned, “He could have still taken the poison himself, that is what it looks like.” he said, raising his chin.

“Please! Look at him! Italian leather shoes, authentic. Look at his watch, that is a Jaeger-LeCoultre. The slight discoloration on his fourth finger says he was married, the circle on his upper pocket tells you he put the ring away to spare someone from seeing it. The box in his pocket is consistent with a box from a jeweler’s shop. The man had a lover, he was on his way to see her, why would he kill himself, when he was on top of the world?” Sherlock said, and incredulous look on his face.

“Extraordinary! Simply extraordinary!” John piped up; he had been thinking it quietly ever since he had been able to make sense of Sherlock’s words.

“John!” said Lestrade, sounding relieved. 

Sherlock did not turn around. Angry then.

“Not extraordinary, simply the result of focusing one’s mind. Any idiot could do it.” Sherlock hissed.

“Nope, not really, that’s why you’re here mate.” said Lestrade.

“Anyway, a look into his finances reveals no outstanding debt, no casino privileges, no serious health concerns. By all indicators a man with many reasons to live. Find out what the poison is, and compare it to the other suicide victims.”

“Why?” Lestrade was looking weary.

“Use that brain and think, Lestrade! If there are no similarities in the place, or in victims, the killer must be using the same poison. Check for aeroplanes or aeroports in common, hair stylists, clinics. The killer is randomly selecting them, but they must have all come to him first. Think Lestrade, I would love to bet your team against me!” Sherlock seemed about to jump for excitement.

John cleared his throat, “Timing, Sherlock.”

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes, turning his back on John once more, missing the dazzled expression on the doctor’s face. Lestrade didn’t miss it though, and smiled.

  
  


“Back to my flat?” asked John, once they were done at the site, as Sherlock was clearly in the mood to continue his sulk.

“Will you be boring?” Sherlock asked chin up high, poshness deployed.

“Not planning on it…” John smiled amicably. “Let’s see what’s in the cards for tonight.”

“If you mean to play cards, I must warn you. I count them while my brain is busy gathering information.”

John giggled as they got in the cab. “No cards, Sherlock. You do realize I didn’t know you were calling. The phone wasn’t registering your number. Had I known, I would have answered.” Sherlock just looked out the window. When they got back to the flat, he went into the bathroom and came out in some of his own pajamas and a blue robe that looked as if it were made of silk. He proceeded to the couch, and curled up facing it’s back in a sulk. 

John made tea, which went ignored. Then he waited for Sherlock to come out of his... case sulk? Surely this didn’t happen every time there was progress in a case? When waiting didn’t produce any results, John decided to make a risotto for dinner. 

Finally, Sherlock turned, looked John up and down. “What are you doing?” he asked

“Cooking…” John said, smirking, “... that thing people do to have something hot to eat. Those of us who like to eat, that is.”

“Why? Did your ‘date’ cancel on you?” Sherlock’s brow was scrunched.

“Date? I don’t have a date.”

“But you did. You were going out with Sarah.”

“What? No! You deduced that wrong Sherlock.”

Said detective did not like to hear he was wrong. Much less did he like how he felt when John, looking like a ray of sunshine, had the gall to laugh at him.

“I did not deduce. That would have meant I thought about… your dating life. I was merely informed of the situation.” he answered.

“Informed? Sarah said we were going out?”

“No! I have never met Dr Sawyer. It was Molly who told me the two of you were going out.” he confessed. John noticed he was turning a little pink.

‘Molly, huh’, thought John. “See? That’s what happens when you don’t get it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

Sherlock’s puzzled expression was so alien to his face, that it made John smile. “You should have asked me. I would have told you I’m not dating Sarah, or anyone else. And if I dated, Molly Hooper would be the last person to know.” He looked up, but Sherlock was looking at his feet. “You will eat some of this with me.” John declared.

When it was ready, Sherlock took a bowl, which John had only filled a third of. The Detective said, “This has... peas in it.” with such a dubious look, John couldn’t resist, “Excellent deduction!” Sherlock saw John giggling and he started up too, throwing his napkin at him. Now he relaxed, and started telling John about the case, how he had gone to Barts to check on the results of the testing on the first suspicious suicide, then, after talking with Molly, he had decided to go to Baker Street for some of his clothes, to look more ‘professional’. He told John about not getting along with Donovan and Anderson. As he talked, John noticed he had finished the risotto, peas and all. He sneaked a couple of spoonfuls more onto his bowl, which Sherlock also ate. 

  
  


[ You Can Run - Adam Jones ](https://youtu.be/78laxWzDkuU)

The next day Sherlock received a call from Mrs Hudson. She was back at home and they could move in. The boys started packing up John’s things, mostly books. Then they heard Mrs Lewis yell out; “My bag! You thief! Stop it, come back!!" and Sherlock, who was closer, flew down the stairs and out the door, while John ran into the room to get his gun, and then went after him.

Sherlock and the thief were wrestling about a block away from John’s building. Suddenly, the well dressed robber stopped and raised a hand to wave at John. Sherlock started to turn and the man knocked him out, picked him up as if he were a sack of flour and put him in the back of his blue van, taking off seconds before John could reach them.

John took a picture of the license and went into the mom and pop shop, where the owner, who knew he was a Vet, lent him his old motorcycle. John found the blue van, slowed down by the London traffic. The driver calmly smiled as he drove. 

Once out of city limits, Sherlock sprung up, digging his thumbs in the driver’s eyes. Instead of spiraling out of control, the driver slowed down, and when Sherlock threw himself on the bench, the man opened the door, as John approached. The driver slid out, Sherlock on him instantly, ripping half his shirt off. The kidnapper arched his body, smoothly flipping Sherlock over his shoulder. The next instant, he held him captive, strangling Sherlock with one arm, his other hand now holding a box cutter to his throat. As Sherlock remained struggling for air, John approached slowly, gun in hand, saying, “Let him breathe, Let him go, and I will let you live. I’m an Army Captain, a crack shot, and I will shoot you.” The fact that his heart was racing, and fear for Sherlock tied his stomach in knots, would have never been perceived by an outsider.

“Sherlock! Really, what a pet you have gotten!” The man’s Irish lilt was a bit off somehow. John knew better than to show it, but the constant smiling was unnerving. “Master will be mad now. He doesn’t like to admit it, but he’s a jealous bloke, mate. And he’s nasty.”

John gathered all the authority his years of the army had given him. “This has gone on long enough! Let him go. Now!”

The man clucked his tongue. “Don’t even remember me, Captain Watson? I’m hurt! But then again, you were always so ‘holier than thou’, weren’t you? Alright. We’re done. The Boss said ‘don’t kill him, I want to make him dance first’, but since _you_ like him.” And just like that, he slit Sherlock’s throat.

John screamed his name. Too late.

The man threw himself back. Sherlock’s chest was instantly coloured red with blood; he fell to the floor, limp, dead?

The man reached his car, and got away. John had the presence of mind to press the 999 on his phone as he reached Sherlock. Still alive. Oh Christ, he was reaching up. John stopped Sherlock’s hands from touching his neck and the blood that covered his shirt.

“Can’t breathe John…” barely audible “...m’throat hurts.”

John sat and delicately took him in his arms. His voice was thick with tears, “I got you. You’ll be alright.”

Sherlock struggled to get his hands out of John’s. “Help me sit, can’t breathe.” John shifted him some, tears falling now. Sherlock stared.

“Why are you crying John?” Sherlock looked alarmed. “Help me sit up!” he whispered.

John took a good look at Sherlock. The slit on his throat was nasty and bleeding, but not fatal. God, shallow even. The man had cut just enough to make it bleed moderately for a while. “ _The Boss said ‘don’t kill him, I want to make him dance first'._ ”

Sherlock managed to sit up by himself. He was obviously dizzy, and seemed surprised to see himself covered in blood. John took his shirt off and made a makeshift bandana for him, covering the wound. The adrenaline down was hitting him. Sherlock could easily be dead. With the urgency gone, he opened Sherlock’s ruined shirt, helped him sit up straighter so he could breathe better. John sat down next to his friend so Sherlock could lean on him. He worried he had nothing to offer him. He talked about what would happen when the ambulance came, tried to describe step by step. After what seemed an eternity, the EMS and the police finally came. 

Sherlock put up a fuss, agitating himself to such an extent that the first responders had to let John come with, to keep him stable. John sat where he was told, reminding Sherlock to breathe, that he was there. He also told him he was calling Lestrade, which he did, and went over the basic facts of the incident with the DI. He also asked if he could have someone pick up the motorcycle, give it back to its owner.

John had relayed to the first responders that opiates should be avoided when possible and that Sherlock had a paradoxical response to common anesthesia and the most popular tranquilizers. He had provided them with a list he had put in his phone, made with information gathered during their evening talks. Once they got to the hospital, John reminded Sherlock he would be waiting for him, and the most he probably needed was a check of his oxygen levels, stitches and a clean up. 

While John waited, a beautiful woman with a phone came to stand in front of him, “John Watson, here for Sherlock Holmes. Follow me please.”

John wondered why the woman had no uniform on, but followed. In the office, there was a bare desk, bare walls and an important looking man, dressed in an impressive suit, who extended a hand to invite him to sit. John did not. 

“Captain John H Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Invalidated with honours. Originally from Westminster, graduated from Saint Bartholomew with High Honors. Mastered as a surgeon, currently working as a locum GP.”

“Astounding. I’m truly flattered that you are so interested that you have procured such a trove of information on me. Unfortunately, I can not reciprocate. So, unless there is a follow up to this odd encounter, I have more important business to tend to."

“Sherlock Holmes has been admitted with a grave injury. You were not only present, you have also accompanied him in the ambulance. May I ask why?”

“You may ask, but it is none of your business. Unless you can give me a good reason for wanting to know. Who are you?”

“A concerned party. He would call me an Archenemy. Though in reality, I worry constantly about him.”

“Listen, I _deduce_ by your posture, your italian suit, your attitude, and your ‘concern’ for Sherlock, that you are his brother Mycroft. Everything you said about me is correct. What happened today was not Sherlock’s fault. We were packing up our things from my bedsit, to take to Baker Street, when Sherlock was taken. The particulars about it are for Sherlock to disclose to you. Now if you would allow me, I would like to find out how he’s doing.”

“He is doing well, Doctor Watson. The strangulation has inflamed muscles around his trachea, which initially made it difficult for him to breathe. The cut, though long, didn’t reach much below the epidermis, staples have been applied, as well as a local pain relief salve. He has also been given antibiotics. My brother’s blood tests reveal he has been clean for weeks. As I have learned you are to continue to be his flatmate as well as his friend? I propose a collaboration, where we could both work in Sherlock’s favour.”

“A collaboration? What would that look like?”

“You would continue as you are, his colleague in cases, and his - pal. I would facilitate a certain, generous amount to your bank account in exchange for; information. Nothing of a too personal manner, just pertinent to his work and any suspicious business transactions.

“Absolutely not.”

“I haven’t named the amount. You would...” tried Mycroft.

“No.”

“You are very loyal, very fast.”

“I am loyal to Sherlock. I find he is the exception.”

“What are your intentions towards my brother, Dr. Watson?”

“I’m certain that is none of your business. Now I will go see him. If you haven’t ordered to keep me away from him.” John said.

“Not at all. Please convey my best wishes to him. Good night, doctor.”

On his way out of the office, the woman presented him with a bag containing two clean vests, and gave him the room number. He took them and hurried. 

Sherlock was speaking loudly, his voice still rough and uneven, “Yes I will leave now, and no, I do not care what instructions come from ‘higher up’ because there is nothing to legally hold me back!” A somewhat muffled and hoarse voice becoming clearer, a nurse, the cute one that had made eyes at him. “...going to need someone to make sure the swelling goes down and you can breathe.”

“I’m perfectly capable of noticing if my voice changes. I can take the antibiotics myself! I’m not staying here!”

“Calm down, you right git.” said John, affectionately. He looked at his chart. The nurse looked from him to Sherlock and back again, wide eyed. John talked to her, “Everything seems to be in place, vitals alright, levels of oxygenation within normal limits. His primary doctor will sign his release.”

“His primary doctor? Doctor Mendez?”

“Mendez attended him in emergencies, but he’s not the primary.” John said 

“Who is then?” Pretty nurse asked.

“Dr John Watson.” said Sherlock grinning. “He is also my in-home doctor, so you need not worry about me, I’ll be taken care of.” The nurse’s cheeks turned red.

They signed the papers. John helped Sherlock get dressed and changed his own bloody vest for the new one. They got Sherlock's medicines and caught a cab to John’s flat. What would be their last night there. Once they were in, Sherlock in the bed, his protests ignored, they shared a cuppa, and Sherlock asked John to tell him his side of the story, and John obliged. He also told him about his encounter with Mycroft.

“Did he offer you money to spy on me?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, but I didn’t take it.” said John.

“Next time do, and we’ll go on a holiday at his expense. Somewhere scandalous, like Las Vegas and use his card and his ID to get into the Casinos and gay bars.”

“Don’t you think he would bury us in a dungeon for something like that?” John asked, smiling.

“More likely, section us in hospital.” After a sober moment, Sherlock added. “Did I say something inappropriate when we were in hospital with that nurse that wants you? She turned inexplicably red.” he said.

“I think it was you saying you would be taken care of. The way you said it, with the smile on your face, it sounded like you meant something else.”

“Sex?”

“Well, yeah.” he answered.

Sherlock looked down, and spoke softly, “You didn’t say anything. I was happy I didn’t have to spend the night in hospital. I wasn’t aware what I said could be interpreted that way. I apologise John, I know you are not gay. Now, people will talk.” Sherlock looked crestfallen. John did not like that. He wanted the genius happy.

“That’s what people do, Sherlock. Never worry.” John said, with a small smile.

They talked about things big and small, until Sherlock fell asleep. John stayed next to him, thinking about people talking, and how he felt about that, and how he felt for this genius, gorgeous, odd man. Had he ever felt like this before about anyone? Could he feel this for Sarah? He knew the answer was no. So, was he bi? He would have never thought it, but Sherlock in that suit, whoa! At some point, he fell asleep, Sherlock’s hand in his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, leaving kudos, commenting. It makes sharing stories such a great experience! I like to listen to music for inspiration, setting the tone of a scene, showing a character's emotions. Here is a playlist with songs in the story and some that just were meaningful while writing it. Hope you enjoy! [ TBOL Playlist ](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLud3GHG-J9VrNvvwODv_W5nLDqrpyU74)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter earns the story's "E". The men finally move in to Baker Street. Mrs Hudson is delighted. She is so happy to have a doctor in the house. She is even happier for Sherlock. He comes across John's memory box and helps himself to its contents. Fortunately, John is not really upset. They collaborate with Lestrade to try and discover the identity of the man who seemed to know both Sherlock and John. It is not so easy to narrow down the identity of the man, and who he is working with, but Sherlock is finding that with John, things are definitely better, and new experiences are easier when collaborating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my gratitude and love to my dearests [ Dovahlock221 ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dovahlock221/pseuds/Dovahlock221) and [ Loveismyrevolution. ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loveismyrevolution/pseuds/Loveismyrevolution) I want to also thank all of you who have read, and kudoed and commented on this little gift. It was so fun to write, and fun to share, so it's great to see readers enjoying it too!

In preparation for their move, Sherlock helped John put all his boxed up worldly possessions into the back of one of Mycroft’s cars. Mrs Hudson hugged Sherlock, and cooed over John, tickled that they had a doctor in residence. John took his clothes to the room upstairs. He actually had a couple of pots and pans, and a kettle. His shower things had gone in the bathroom, his Radox shampoo, versus Sherlock’s Oribe. He had looked fine with his curls in a halo, while he stayed at Johns, but ever since he had gotten his own products back, the ringlets were incomparable. Well, they were part of John’s problems, those curls.

He came downstairs, where there were his books in the bookcase, apparently ordered by something less boring than author or size.The kitchen things in their new places. The red armchair in front of the fireplace beckoned, he went to look around the kitchen, the shelves, the fridge. Mrs Hudson had provided them with some basics; milk, tea, bread, eggs, orange juice, dish washing soap. He was thinking of what else to buy to make lunch with when he realized Sherlock had been very quiet. 

John went over to him. He had changed out of his suit, and was back to wearing his old jeans and that white way too big t-shirt he had on when he first saw him. Sherlock had discovered John’s trunk, and was sitting cris-cross with it in front of him. He had been going through his documents, and passport. Now, he was looking through John’ army pictures. 

[ Ben Platt - So Will I ](https://youtu.be/9VjDNOJHQ3g)

At the moment, Sherlock held one in his hand. Captain Watson in full military regalia. His mouth was slightly opened and there was colour on his cheeks. Was he breathing?

“Earth to Sherlock?” John asked, and Sherlock actually gasped for air, he looked up at John. There was such longing in his eyes, John kneeled next to him, took his friend's face in his hands, and kissed him, oh so gently. It was glorious. The bolt of excitement, his lips, so supple, so male, the smell of evergreen from his soap was dizzying. His eyes, looking at him as if he were the lucky one. Sherlock was looking at a worn out, insignificant, useless soldier, as if John were a prize. Though he knew that if he wasn’t those things anymore, it was thanks to Sherlock.

“John, what is this? You are not gay, you…”

“Sherlock, this is us. I’m bi, 'obviously'. You are the first man I’ve ever had feelings for.”

“John, don’t. I… I’m not good at this, I don’t know how…”

“You are the first person I have ever felt this much for. The first one I feel I belong with. I knew it from the moment I lay eyes on you, love. I felt it that strongly.” John looked at Sherlock.

He kissed him again, more than a soft gentle kiss this time, hungrier, letting the tip of his tongue part Sherlock’s lips and find that curious, eloquent tongue of his, feeling Sherlock gasp at the novel sensation, his breath quickening. John sucked at it, then at that lower lip, worrying it with his teeth. Oh, he would have kissed that neck and done much more to it, but he was hurt, and to be treated with patience and kindness. 

He helped Sherlock stand up and kissed him again, sliding his hands under his t-shirt, feeling the smooth skin over hard muscle. Sherlock’s knees threatened to buckle with just that bit of kissing, his fierce, fearless detective outdone by a bit of a snog.

So John took him by the hand, leading him towards the bedroom. “John…” said Sherlock “...you won’t, don’t leave… after this, don’t leave me.”

“Where would I go? I’m home, here with you.” John answered.

Once in the bedroom, they kissed again, this time Sherlock giving back, and licking and sucking and being a little too much, but it was alright, it was him. After a while of kissing and caressing, John took Sherlock’s hand and placed it without hesitation on the bulge forming quickly underneath his trousers, so the younger man could feel how he affected John. Sherlock gasped, “John!”

John took off his shirt, his trousers, his socks. He intended to undress Sherlock, but he was looking at him blinking and one hand had gone to his curls, tugging at his own hair. Overwhelmed?, thought John, so he opened the covers and lay on the bed, inviting Sherlock to lay down next to him and John let him look, let him touch. The first thing Sherlock touched was John’s scar. Delicately traced it with his fingers, then came closer to observe it, catalog it and place it on the John in his brain; the Mind Palace he had talked with him about. Even closer, he looked at John’s face. “May I?” he asked, and John said yes because that was his answer to most of Sherlock’s questions;: “Yes, I’ll get it. Yes, I’ll find it, Yes, I’ll make tea, Yes, I’ll patch you up. Yes, I’ll go with you.”

John was rewarded by Sherlock bringing his whole body closer, plastering himself on John, sniffing, kissing and then probing John’s scar with his tongue. This was so unexpected, so sensual, that John groaned, and Sherlock stopped, got up and looked at him in alarm. “Am I doing it wrong? Am hurting you?”

“No love, I want more, it gets harder to use words.”

“More…” Sherlock said and he sat up and took off his clothes, keeping his pants on, like John. He kissed him passionately, his hands roaming awkwardly all over John’s body, while John caressed Sherlock’s back, then let his hand wander, touching his hips, his thighs, his arse. John was thrilled with Sherlock’s entire body, masculine, muscular. Vibrant, every touch, every new body part arousing him more. He eased his hand inside Sherlock’s pants and grasped at his erect cock. He had an electrifying feeling of this being so right, his own prick starting to leak. Sherlock made a delicious noise filled with lust, and then hid his head in John’s neck. John said, “None of that, let me hear you.”

He sat up, took off his pants, causing Sherlock’s mind to go offline again. He didn’t seem to be able to take his eyes off of John. The older man sat up between Sherlock’s legs, and took off Sherlock’s pants, too.

“Oh, Sherlock, you are beautiful, extraordinary, sweetheart. Is this alright?”

When Sherlock said yes, John looked around and found a bottle of lotion he made use of, as Sherlock watched. Then he put his hand on him, stroking slowly and steadily first, then when he was hard as a rock, John grabbed Sherlock’s hand guiding him to hold John in the same way. Sherlock did, and he also rubbed his own cock against John’s, which accelerated both men’s pleasure. Sherlock came first, and John saw him in the throes of a passion that he, John, had provoked. Sherlock had looked magnificent, and John knew no other lover would ever compare to him, that Sherlock would always be The One for John. Then he was back chasing his own climax, after which John kissed him and couldn’t stop himself from looking at him. He did get up to find some wipes and flannels to clean them up. As he cleaned his partner, Sherlock opened his eyes, and John saw insecurity in them. 

“That was fantastic, Sherlock.” He kissed him, and smoothed his hair. 

“You will stay here, with me, John?” Sherlock asked, voice heavy with sleep.

“Right here.” John hugged him, not caring that he wasn’t tall enough to be big spoon. 

John woke up to Mrs Hudson knocking on the door.

“Woohoo, Sherlock? DI Greg is here! He wants to talk to you!”

Both men got dressed in a hurry. Sherlock was not successful in taming his hair, but they managed to be presentable in a short time. They came out the door and Lestrade was sitting in Sherlock’s chair, looking like the cat who caught the cream. As soon as Sherlock saw him he said, “Shut up!” 

“Hey! I didn’t say a thing!” Lestrade’s smile did not falter.

“You are thinking about it, and we have a case to solve. Stop!”

“Alright, alright. Then let’s get to it. Who was this sod that knew John here.”

John wasn’t able to recognize him from pictures. He was tall, and slim, brown/black buzz cut, brown eyes, pale skin, and an irish accent. He had been dressed oddly, for a kidnapper; expensive short sleeve white shirt, tailored gray pants and leather shoes. It could be anyone. Even looking through the military files, there were too many people, and too many generalizations. Then Sherlock jumped up. 

“He had a tattoo! It was a tiger and it was very colourful. The tiger was hunting, very well done and distinctive! I would say due to the pigmentation of the orange, he had it done in the US, some 5 years ago, he could have been military, but dishonorably dismissed. Now he is working for a dominant, possessive man who is interested in me. I wonder if you would recognize him if we found his real hair and eye color.”

“You think everything is fake?” asked Lestrade.

“Maybe. Think about it John. Did you know someone with a tiger tattoo?” Sherlock asked John.

John said he knew a couple of men, but he couldn’t remember why any of them would have something against him. 

They talked for a while about different possibilities, but Sherlock was, after all, hurt and exhausted, and had just had sex with John for the first time. That thought made John smile. Greg noticed. He also saw Sherlock falling asleep on the sofa. During a case. Unprecedented. 

“Let’s continue this tomorrow at the Yard. You both look wiped out.” said Lestrade, gathering his things. He got to the door, and before he closed it, popped his head back in, and said, “By the way, congratulations you two!”

“Shut up!” yelled Sherlock, sounding angrier than Lestrade deserved. When Lestrade left, Sherlock looked at John. “Did it bother you, that he knows?”

“Why would it? He was happy for us!” John answered and saw that Sherlock's body relaxed and a little smile came on his face. 

They went to bed, Sherlock wouldn’t hear of John going to ‘his’ room. 

The men fell asleep as soon as they got under the covers. John woke up before Sherlock did. He thought he could look at him sleeping all day long. Then he remembered how apprehensive the younger man had been about Lestrade congratulating them. Had he thought John didn’t want people to know about them? He thought about how sure Sherlock had been that John would go out with Sarah, and how Mycroft had used John’s past with women to make Sherlock believe he would trade him for an attractive girl.. 

John had been attracted to a man. His Colonel. There had been laughter, and camaraderie, and being together in silence. There had been lingering looks and touches. In the end, when John felt ready to take a step towards a relationship and insinuated something, the Colonel had balked. Said he never considered John more than a friend. 

That was then, this was now. Sherlock was the smartest, most extraordinary man in the world, and he wanted John. Sherlock could find a lover closer to himself in class, or fortune, or intelligence. John may not have too much time to share his feelings. So he would show his detective he most definitely could make a man feel loved. 

He moved cautiously, took down Sherlock’s pyjamas and his pants. Sherlock stirred, but didn’t wake. Perfect. He only had experience on the receiving end of this particular act, and he had taken some time to figure out his plan. Now, he carried it out, having a much easier time than he had imagined, happy in making Sherlock wake up and squeal, “John!” and try to tell him he didn’t have to do that, just to lose his words again. John acted out the things that he liked, the playing with the bollocks, stroking, fondling and taking them into his mouth one by one, the helping hand, the varied tempo. In no time, John had Sherlock begging, trying so hard not to thrust, not to grab him by the hair. One powerful suck at the end, had Sherlock coming without being aware he had been so close, so John swallowed, then realised he himself was so hard, pulling his pants down almost did him in. Sherlock gave him four hard strokes, and John was done for.

John had a couple of names for Lestrade. Michael Hopkins, Edward Taylor and Peter Williams; all had served in John’s unit and had tiger tattoos. His major suspect though not pale, dark eyed or Irish, was a LT Sebastian Moran, who had been accused of abusing local women under the guise of helping rebuild a local hospital. John had been one of three officers sitting in the panel of court members, at martial court. They had found him guilty of attempted murder and sexual misconduct. Earning him a dishonorable discharge. John had heard of his tiger tattoo, never seen it.

Using the Yards computers, the three of them gave Moran the appearance he had the day of the incident, and they had their kidnapper. They were stumped as to who he may be working with. So far, Sherlock deduced that Moran had altered his appearance and his accent to mimic his “Boss” as an odd “calling card” of sorts. Therefore, according to the performance Moran gave, with his badly attempted Irish accent, his coloured, slicked back black hair, his colour contacts, his good suit, said boss had to be of Irish origin, non-military, and preferred to dress elegantly. He also had black hair and brown eyes. 

A week of trying to match Moran with countless established drug lords, mafia bosses and serial killers had not had any results. Neither could they find the man himself; nor the Yard, nor Sherlock’s group of associates of dubious characters, his underground network. Sherlock was angry and restless and did not settle easily. John gave up trying to feed him and turned in for the night, taking a long shower before he went up to his mostly unused bedroom, intending to conduct an experiment of sorts.

[ Eli Lieb - Safe in My Hands ](https://youtu.be/rxK5_zKByJo)

Sherlock followed suit soon after. John heard him on the stairs, his feet quiet. “May I come in, or does choosing this room mean I’ve done something not good and you want to be alone?”

“None of that. I just thought you wanted to pace and fret and would not like me in your room if you were not in it.”

“Don’t be idiotic John. The room downstairs is now our room; unless, I would understand if you want to sleep alone, if at times you need a break. People do tend to need a break from me…” Sherlock said, his voice steady and his chin high.

“Stop that right now. I’m not ‘people’! I absolutely do not need or want a break from you. Since I was here, I got to thinking that this room is one more floor removed from Mrs Hudson’s acute sense of hearing.”

At that Sherlock’s pupils dilated. “Something specific in mind, Captain?”

Indeed, Holmes. Come here and take those pyjamas off immediately. I have the mission to explore your body, and provide it with as much pleasure as it can take. Are you up to the task?”

“Yes, Captain.” Sherlock whispered already with a dazed look on his face.

“Come here, love.” He loved Sherlock’s face when he called him that.

Sherlock came to bed, and John kissed him, hard, passionately, to erase the case from his mind. He even nuzzled his neck gently, licking around the tender scar there. John took his own clothes off, and Sherlock followed him. Sherlock’s hands went to work on John’s body, caressing him just how he liked it, the last two weeks proving the genius was a fast learner. 

John hid his own nerves with his Captain persona. He had done his own research, his own preparation and was ready. Now that they were both hard and willing, hands all over each other, he said, “I want you to come inside me.” 

Sherlock was most definitely alarmed by that; “John, you’re not - you don’t have - we don’t have to do...”

“Holmes. Are you up to the task?”

“Yes… Captain.” low, quiet response.

“Then do it. I’ve already prepared.” 

“You are endlessly full of surprises, John.” Sherlock seemed in awe.

Sherlock took a tube of slick, and spread it on his fingers. He kissed John’s legs, and touched John’s body tentatively, as his finger passed through the rim of muscle and explored the new territory. Sherlock worked to keep his breath steady, though he could do nothing about his galloping heart, and patiently thrust his finger in and out, startling when John jerked and gasped as Sherlock found the ridge of his prostate. His second finger joined the first; Sherlock’s nerves battling his overwhelming desire. When he couldn’t wait anymore, he slicked his hand; he had lost some hardness to the awareness that this was his first time. This might work to his advantage now. Sherlock took himself in hand, applied extra lube, pushed into John. 

John gasped. That did hurt, in a way his own fingers had not. The pressure was uncomfortable indeed. He almost asked Sherlock to stop. When he looked up at him, he saw his partner with his eyes closed and such an emotive look on his face. John thrust his hips up instead, fitting all of Sherlock’s cock inside and that felt better. Sherlock had yelped at John’s movement. He had opened his eyes and was looking at him. “You OK?” Sherlock asked him.

“Perfectly fine,” he smiled, though his erection had flagged quite a bit. Then Sherlock started to move, exactly as if this were an experiment. John was going to say something, but then Sherlock found what he was looking for - he hit John’s prostate. John moaned loudly, “Oh please do that again!”

Sherlock obliged, keeping a hard, fast pace, that made John forget any pain and instead taught him the pleasure to be had. After a while he said, “John, I’m so close!”

“I’m close, too, just your hand…” Sherlock took John’s cock in his hand and stroked it to the rhythm of his thrusting. Sherlock wanted to watch as John started to come, but when he felt John’s body squeeze him in his climax, he couldn’t stop himself and in a couple of thrusts, he came in John’s body. He then flopped onto his lover, John letting out a surprised ‘oof’ at his weight.

Sherlock disengaged and got up on wobbly legs to get flannels to clean John up. He also gave him a glass of water and then covered him with the comforter. He took a long time in the shower. John started to get worried.

“Are you alright, love?” he asked when Sherlock emerged in clean clothes and smelling fresh, to get in bed next to him.

“Yes, alright. It’s just; John, no one has ever offered that to me. Plenty of men have wanted to penetrate me, but never the other way around. Now you. You rescued me, and listened to me and I, I have feelings about you. Frankly, this scares me, John.”

“Sherlock, I have feelings for you, too. Since I met you. You rocked my world, turned it tits up. You have taught me things about myself, I never suspected. I will treat you right. I want to be with you as long as you’ll have me. Now get in here next to me.”

It took a long time for sleep to find them, Sherlock having a small meltdown over all the spent emotions and sensations, John hugging him tight and rocking with him in bed until he fell asleep; John soon after. The next morning, John laughed as he discovered he had tangled like an octopus, his leg over Sherlock’s, his foot intertwined with his, his arm around the lanky one’s chest, his hand in his curls. Sherlock had starfished on the bed. His chuckles woke Sherlock up. “What?”

“We are a pair of aquatic animals, you know?”

“Are we now?” Sherlock smiled.

“An octopus and a starfish.”

Sherlock turned and enveloped him in a full body hug. “Just who do you believe to be the octopus, John?”

  
  


Mrs Hudson was upstairs drinking tea with John and casually bringing up all the little repairs the place needed, while Sherlock sat at his computer, phone in hand, yelling at his brother. 

“Well if anyone could find out who he is, it should be you! What do you mean? _You are_ the government! Just how much higher can we go?”

Something has to be done, thought John, as he agreed to yet another home improvement task, he is not eating or sleeping until he uncovers this.

The next day, Mrs H called out, “Sherlock! One of your… irregulars!”

This piqued John’s curiosity, since he hadn’t met anyone from Sherlock’s “Underground Network” yet. Sherlock did not look happy. “Rusty? I thought you left town.”

“Did, but I came back, boss.” Sherlock’s eyebrow moved minimally at that last word.

“I heard you are looking for a guy named Moran. Word is he’s hiding back where the Germans were doing business last month. Want me to take you?”

“Mmh, still have some calls to make. Send Wiggins around 8, I know where it is.”

“Nah, Wiggy is tripping. Want me to come back?” 

“It’s alright, Rusty, I’ll make it there tomorrow morning then.”

The man left. John was pacing uncomfortably. “Are we really going to wait till the morning, Sherlock? He could be gone by then!”

“It’s a trap, John. Rusty left because I didn’t ‘lend’ him money to buy equipment to rob a jewelry store. He thought I wouldn’t know his motive, but word spreads fast. Also, no one calls me boss; it’s either Sherlock, or Shezza. Finally, Wiggins is in hospital detoxing after Lestrade caught him holding at an underground fight. I believe Rusty is now working for the same man Moran does.”

“So we’re not going,?” asked John.

“Of course we are. Dress in your darkest clothes, bring your gun. We are returning to the bowels of London.” Sherlock said with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listening to music and singing along is one of the great joys of my life. I find that every time I think of a story, songs, or musical pieces will start to click and then those songs will immediately pull me back to the story du jour. Here are the songs that sing this version of Sherlock and John to me. [ TBOL Playlist ](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list+PLud3gHG-J9VrNvvwODy_W5nLDqrpyU74I) on YouTube.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are living a fairy tale romance. Everything is new, and exciting, and beautiful. Sherlock knows well, though, that every fairy tale, has a villain. Where did he meet his? Did the man who filled his flat with articles and pictures of Sherlock ever actually know him? Sherlock and John go back to a place in Sherlock's past, to retrace his steps. What did the villain see in the boy? More importantly, what will this mean for Sherlock? for John?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever and always I am grateful to my dear Betas and friends, for their support, and encouragement and attempts to correct my punctuation. [ Dovahlock221 ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dovahlock221/pseuds/Dovahlock221) and the lovely [ Loveismyrevolution , ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loveismyrevolution/pseuds/Loveismyrevolution) who has a new, hot and funny story out, check it out! The ever patient Loveis will never say, but I have a bad habit of having wonderful ideas right before posting, so if commas are misplaced or I have forgotten a full stop (gasp!), please forgive me, and do not direct any blame at my betas!

[ Welcome to the Fire - Willyecho ](https://youtu.be/BLTbuvv1Lgs)

They walked along, John feeling much better than the first time; partly because of the gun in his holster, partly because now he had Sherlock by his side. The man advanced unerringly, as if it were bright as day, and soon they were at a door down a garbage filled alley.

They looked at each other, considering whether to knock on the door, when it suddenly opened; there was Sebastian Moran, blond and blue eyed as John remembered him, in a sleeveless vest and camouflage trousers, the tiger tattoo on display on his left shoulder.

Next to him was a man, a little taller than John, brown hair, cold brown eyes, impeccable bespoke suit. Of course, when he spoke, there was an Irish lilt to his voice, “Well, what  _ do _ we have here! This is a pleasant surprise indeed, Mr Holmes, Dr- hm, enlighten me LT Moran…”

“But of course, Boss, this is the unimpeachable, all knowing, Captain, Dr Watson! You remember me now, right?”

Sherlock ignored the exchange, instead asking the “Boss”,“These murders that are made to look like suicides, they are yours, aren’t they? You are responsible.”

“As in, I was there? Or as in I’ve been helping someone come up with what they need to overcome the troubled situation they found themselves in? Is something clouding your usually genius mind, Sherlock? Are you doing things you are not supposed to?” The man’s tone was overly familiar, as if he knew Sherlock well, his arm movements over-dramatized.

“Who the hell are you?” roared John. He did not like the fascination in Sherlock’s eyes one bit.

“Rude!” said the man, a grimace on his face, his eyebrows dipping low. “You went the wrong way about training your pet, Sherlock, he really doesn't know his place.”

John surged forward, but Sherlock stopped him. 

“Although the way he tries to protect you is adorable. Maybe I should fuck you, too, Sebs, if it will make you want to protect me.”

“You already did, Boss, that’s why I’m at your command.” The “Boss” smiled at that.

“As fascinating as this conversation is, I would like us to move on to, what do you want with me? Why are you doing this?” Sherlock was completely concentrated in capturing every bit of information about the shorter man.

“Why Sherlock, I’m playing a game. For you. With you.” The man exclaimed, pointing at him with his hands and his arms extended.

“A game?” Sherlock asked.

“ _ Obviously!” _

“The suicides, the Germans?”

“All of it Sherlock!” The man responded, smiling and moving his head from side to side as he talked.

“Why me? Who are you? What is your name?” Sherlock looked ready to tear out his hair.

“Oh Sebs. How sad. It seems we both have been forgotten. I am The Villain in your fairy tale. Every good story needs one, Sherlock. My name? Inconsequential. You can call me Jacob Scott.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at that.

‘Jacob’ continued, his voice a singsong, “You haven’t played nice, Sherlock. You brought in too many players!” The self proclaimed villain shook his head as he spoke. “So now I’m too hot, and have to retire to a cool place, like the U.S. for a couple of months, or maybe years. Be on the lookout, though, I won’t forget you.”

At that, both Sebastian and ‘Jacob’ took out aerosol cans and shot the spray at John and Sherlock’s faces.

  
  


They woke up as Lestrade secured the perimeter. “I think he left you a note, mate.” he said to Sherlock, who got up, walked as if he were drunk. He saw the paper; a piece of parchment. On it in ink, written in public school handwriting: 

_ Dear Sherlock Holmes, _

_ Lovely that we had a chance to meet, even though I sadly wasn’t quite ready for it at this time. I would love to answer some of your questions, I do so look forward to our game! _

_ Why you? *“He who is too well off is always looking for something new.” _

_ Who am I? *“They were indeed great rascals, and belonged to that class of people who find things before they are lost.” _

_ What is my name? You know me, Sherlock Holmes. _

_ *“You are mine, and I am yours and no one in the world can alter that.” _

_ **This is a duel between you and me Sherlock. You hope to beat me. I tell you that you never will. If you  _ are  _ clever enough to bring destruction upon me, rest assured that I shall do as much to you. _

_ Jacob Grimm _

Sherlock turned pale at that. He gave John the evidence bag, so he could read the message.

“Do you know him, Sherlock? Is he an ex, maybe? Or someone you helped put away?” John asked. This man certainly thought he knew Sherlock.

“No, and that can’t be his name. He said Jacob Scott. Jacob Grimm is a fairy tale author. He fancies, he knew me when I was what- 10, 11? I used William Scott at times as my name while I was a child. I don't recognize the man.” He looked shocked.

The next two weeks were the most challenging they had yet had. Sherlock was anxious, he was worried. No sleep, no food, no sex, and absolutely no cuddles. Snapped at John and Mrs Hudson. Demanded Lestrade find Moran. But he and his nameless companion had disappeared without a trace, as had Rusty. 

Mycroft did what he could, finally identifying the mystery man as one Richard Brook, curiously, a children’s show actor, who was on hiatus after some much covered up trouble with the studio. His whereabouts were unknown, but when Sherlock, John and Lestrade found the man’s flat, they found the walls covered with cut out articles and pictures about cases, every single one Sherlock had ever collaborated in, ever given a hint to the police about; meaning he had access to Mycroft’s CCTV cameras, and apparently had for a long time. 

John was relieved and even happy to be in the meeting with Sherlock and Mycroft. The older brother told them, orders had been given to detain Brooks and Moran. According to his sources, they had not left the country. Mycroft assured them that he would provide security for 221b, Mrs Hudson, Mummy and Daddy, and one Harry Watson. 

If Sherlock stayed back to have some final words with his brother, John didn’t think twice about it.

For a couple of days after that, John got his Sherlock back. He explained that he had been worried about the man, Brooks. “Obsessed people are dangerous people, John. They believe themselves omniscient, and the only owners of the truth. I don’t want to think about how many people he would be willing to sacrifice for his game. Or what I would have to to sacrifice if I went against him, deciding not to play.”

John looked at his earnest face. The bit of weight he had gained after sobering up was gone again. His hair was once more a nest of curls. But still his, his detective, his Sherlock. John had neglected his work to be there for Sherlock to ward off danger nights. They had both missed meals and sleep. All worth it to be in this incredible man’s life. 

Just as they were settling in for some well needed intimacy, Mrs Hudson’s voice came through the floors, “Boys! Government Official on his way!!”

“NO!!” But they both got up and went down the stairs to find Mycroft waiting for them in the sitting room. “What do you want that can’t wait for the morning?” snapped Sherlock.

“I want to give you some peace of mind, brother. Richard Brooks has been detained for interrogation, as has Sebastian Moran. Both of them have debts with the law they will have to pay. Neither will be able to reach you.” 

“That is great!” said John. “We can go back to settling in here and working on cases!” He didn’t like Sherlock’s lack of enthusiasm. 

“It won’t last John.” he said, looking at his brother. “They will have to be released shortly.”

“Do you know anything you are not sharing, brother mine?” Mycroft asked.

“Not yet, but these men have been working covertly for a while. The association with Moran is not new, going by the way he talks about Brooks. To be undetected that long, unknown, means they have connections that ensure they stay out of sight. Those two men know us. While Moran’s connection to John has been discovered, Brook’s connection to me hasn’t. Why do I not remember him? I have no idea who he is.” Sherlock started pacing the rug again. 

“Think about it, Brother mine. You might have met him at a time, or a place, when you weren’t at your best. Unfortunately, you placed yourself in several such situations. If you remember anything, please let me know. I’m heading back to the office to see if I can obtain any further information."

Sherlock ruffled his hair with his hands as he grunted in frustration. “He wanted me to recognize him! He was irate when I didn’t. 

“Even when he first said his name, Jacob Scott, I had the feeling I knew him. I was distracted at the time.” 

Sherlock paced on the rug, his hands on his hips. 

“John!” Sherlock explained, excitement lightning up his eyes, “Scott was the name I used when I spent the summer in Dublin! I was 10 years old. Mummy was speaking at a conference, and they put me in the old Glasnevin music school. After classes there were employees who would take some of us to a horse stable for riding sessions. I was registered in both places as Scott Holmes. But where did I meet Brooks?”

John said the first thing that came to his mind, “If Moran’s appearance was a clue to what he looked like, then everything the man said must have been clues, too. He talked a lot and wrote a lot, too.”

“John! The note! Where is it?”

He took it from John’s hand and read the note out loud, " _ ‘Why you? *“He who is too well off is always looking for something new”...  _ I was always bored in Dublin. Always in school, being led around. I loved the horses, though...There’s something there…

“He said he ' _ belonged to that class of people who find things before they are lost'.  _ In Dublin, I was continuously losing things! My music sheets, my violin’s bow, and most notoriously, the keys to our rental. Mummy put up such a fuss and made my life very uncomfortable. But who took them?"

John looked at him, his pointer finger tapping his lips. “What made the biggest impression on me was when he said he was 'The Villain in your fairy tale', that every story needed one." he said.

Sherlock came to an abrupt stop and stood up straight. “Oh! John! Pack a bag. We are going to Dublin, to revisit the old Glasnevin Music school!”

On the aeroplane, Sherlock told John about it. “We were in Dublin for mummy’s conventions. She liked Daddy with her so they conveniently registered me for a summer class in the Glasnevin conservatory. In all truthfulness I would have liked it better than my classes in London, if it hadn’t been that I deeply resented being pulled along to Dublin, due to Mycroft reading some foreign politics class for Uni. In addition to the conservatory, I also spent my afternoons with horses, at a stable. I must confess I loved it. It was there that I was befriended by an adolescent, maybe 14-15 years old. He supervised me brushing down the horses and feeding them. I’m sure now that it’s him. He was always the villain in our games. His name was O’Doherty." 

They checked into a bed and breakfast close to the school and the park where the stables were. Then went directly to the school first, where the man at the registrar’s office told him that unfortunately, they only kept the files for ten years, and that he couldn’t help them. He did direct them to Professor Chan’s office, where they waited for 20 minutes for her class to finish. When Sherlock gave her the year he had attended, her face lit up. “Oh, you are Scottie Holmes! Goodness, I never had another student as talented as you at such a young age! Are you a professional now?” she asked.

“No. I’m a consulting detective, however playing does give me great pleasure.” Sherlock replied.

Professor Chan told him she was happy it did, and took them for a tour around the school. They got to the file room and she looked through her old papers.    


“I’m sorry. There is no O’Doherty on my student role for that year. Maybe he was in another class, but I think I would have been aware of him. There have always been only three of us per semester.” They thanked her for her time and decided they still had time to go to the stables.

The young man who greeted them was happy to take them around. He looked up both Sherlock and O’Doherty’s name on the computer and again only found Sherlock’s. “But O’Doherty does ring a bell… “ The chap said. “...Let’s go ask my mum.”

[ Every Breath You Take - Chase Holfelder ](https://youtu.be/DFgAbn0Mbog)

The lady in question reminded Sherlock of his own mum; prim, fastidious, distant. “O’Doherty? Of course, but he was no student here! His mum, Gladys O Doherty, was the assistant manager here for years. The boy worked here as a stable hand. He had just turned 16 and took full time work. He was clean and dressed above his station, impeccable manners, but there was something wrong with that boy.”

”Wrong? Was he a troublemaker?” asked John.

“Oh, not here. We had a stare off the first day he came in. My brother is a police constable, and I let him know, he would come full force on him if ever I thought he needed it. He sized me up and never dared misbehave.”

“This O'Doherty, he would have been allowed to interact with the students, right?” Sherlock asked.

“Well, I certainly didn’t encourage it, and he was odd enough to both dislike the students and be disliked by them, given a couple of exceptions. Once, especially, a posh little boy started spending time with him. When I asked Jim what they did together, he said he read the boy Grimm Tales for school assignments.”

Sherlock looked like the final piece of his puzzle had entered its rightful place. 

“What did you deduce, Sherlock?" John asked, taking his wrist in his hand.

“I was that child. I thought O’Doherty was ‘cool’. I had to read the Grimm Brothers' tales because I was supposed to compose a short piece about how the story of Hansel and Gretel made me feel. O’Doherty read the villain parts for me. We ended up reading the whole book.” Sherlock answered, his memory having finally opened up.

They thanked the mother and son, and went their way. 

That evening Sherlock told John, “I was going on 11 years old, and had never thought about relationships. My life had been experiments, music, books and Mycroft. O’Doherty was clever. He pretended to be all solicitous and well mannered, and when we were alone, he told me how he would add laxatives to the food of the most obnoxious students, the ones who made fun of him and how he fantasized about them being poisoned. I believed he did it for the experiments, found him… interesting. He took the fairy tale reading seriously. He was animated, funny, dramatic. O’Doherty role played with me. He was always the villain. He would repeatedly praised me, called me clever. He said I was a genius, like him. He would drop “You are mine," in our conversations. I started to not like it. Even as naive about those things as I was then, I thought he wanted, something else." 

John sat up in attention now. "What? Did he ever touch you, Sherlock? Did you tell anybody?”

“No, no, he didn’t. He didn’t have to. The way he looked at me was enough. It made me feel deeply uncomfortable. It was as if he wanted to burn me down. He called me ‘My' or 'Mine’... ‘Here comes my Scottie’. One day he asked me if I would like to be his prince in a tower, where he could keep me safe." Sherlock’s skin was in goosebumps, and he shivered. “That made me feel ill to my stomach. The next day I went out and looked for other students, which was unprecedented behaviour for me. While he still waited for me, he must have toned down, because we ended the summer cordially, if not as friendly as we started.” Sherlock was pale and rubbing his arms as if he were cold. I never told my parents, or Mycroft. I did do my best to forget about it, to not think about him. Once I built my Mind Palace, I put him away in a locked box."

John got closer to him, and hugged him tight, trying not to let him see how much it had upset and enraged him that O’Doherty, years older than Sherlock, had threatened him that way. Now John wanted a chance at him. Nobody treated Sherlock like that and got away without a dose of Watson.

The next day, they called on a neighbor of Gladys O'Doherty's. Mrs. Sullivan was a friendly old lady, who looked at Sherlock’s ID and let them in. She seemed happy to reminisce.

“Oh, Gladys! She was such a good girl. Worked herself silly, the poor woman. Not lucky in love, she really wasn’t lucky at all. A good neighbor, always checking on me, asking if I needed something. It’s been so long though. Has something happened with that son of hers?”

John asked, “Why would you ask that, Mrs. Sullivan? And what happened to Mrs. O’Doherty?”

“Hmmpf. That boy of hers. Jim was his name. He was an oily one. Slick, he was and oh, so clever. I saw right through him. Gladys would come out of her house with bruises on her arms or legs and I knew it was him. I would hear the domestics at first, and I couldn’t talk to her, poor woman, but I caught up with him once. ’Jim O’Doherty,’ I said to him, ‘What you are doing to your mother is not right. If I hear you at it one more time I will go over, rescue her and create such a fuss the police will come.”

“And did the fighting stop?” John asked.

“No, but he was quiet about it. I didn’t find out till he left for good, that he still hit her.”

“Do you know where he went when he left here?” John continued, as Sherlock looked at the O’Doherty house through the windows.

“Gladys finally listened to me and told the boy who his father was. She seemed to be even more afraid of the man than she was of Jim. I don’t know why, as he was an English Literature professor at Oxford University.”

“His name was Professor O’Doherty, then?” John tried, keeping an eye out for Sherlock.

“Oh no, Gladys trusted me. She had been a waitress in a cafe close to the University, and got herself in a relationship with a married man. He was well known and powerful. When she got pregnant, he ended their relationship and warned her to never look for him. By that time, Gladys was aware he was not only a professor and had business connections with some very bad people." 

“So, she came here and raised her son all by herself. She never got married?”

“No. Jim would have never let her get close to anybody. I’m telling you, Gladys could not even have a pet. Her poor dog died. Supposedly it was run over by a car. I’m telling you, that poor animal was beaten to death.” By this time, Sherlock was back and listening intensely. Gladys finished rummaging in an old desk and pulled out a photograph. Sherlock’s eyes opened wide. “This is Gladys and that is Jim. Now I remember. The Professor’s name was Moriarty.”

John thought of another question. “What happened to Gladys? After Jim left?”

“At first, she was relieved. She worked, she made some friends with the ladies at the library. She seemed to be doing well. Then, suddenly, about a year later, she told me Jim had called and was to come for a visit the following month during the school holidays. To my surprise, the week before the visit was supposed to take place, she took her things and left. I caught her getting her luggage in the car, and she hugged me and made me promise to go to my brother’s, for a holiday. She also wouldn’t tell me where she was going, because she didn’t want me to have to hide it from Jim, saying he would know if I lied to him. I listened to her. I stayed at my brother’s. Turned out it was good timing. My sister-in-law had her twins early, and I ended up staying for a good two seasons. I never saw Gladys or Jim nor heard from them again.” 

They left Mrs. Sullivan soon after, and the cab ride to the hotel was quiet indeed. With Sherlock deep in thought, and John going over everything he had learned that day. He liked none of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit angsty, this chapter. A bit more to come. They men are together and fine, though, and will have, as promised, their happy ending! Songs for this story on the [ TBOL Playlist ](www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLud3gHG-J9VrNvvwODv_W5nLDqrpyU74I) on YouTube. Thank you for reading, giving kudos and commenting!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter begins and ends with a concerned Big Brother. Mycroft knows Sherlock can be a pain, but he is his Little Brother. He may be the Ice Man, but the one constant in his life has been caring for Sherlock. He will not sit down idle and watch him be hurt. Meanwhile, John takes advantage of the location. They are after all, away from home, they are young and in love and, this story is and "E" one. Moriarty might have made an agreement of sorts with The English Government, but still has some things to say. Will it be enough to send Sherlock on a solo mission to stop him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is brought to you by my patient, hard working Betas, [ Dovahlock221 ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dovahlock221/pseuds/Dovahlock221) wildly talented author and artist, and [ Loveismyrevolution](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loveismyrevolution/pseuds/Loveismyrevolution) also a talented author, and the best friends fandom can offer! As always, these two talents are not responsible for the errors I incur in after they have given their seal of approval, and I decide to make last minute changes! This is the next to last chapter! I rearranged things so they would not be too long. Hope you enjoy!

Back in his home office, in London, a distraught Mycroft sat at his desk, holding his head in his hands. “Oh, God, no!” He had liked John Watson. The doctor seemed wise beyond his years. His brother had been a walking disaster, even with Lestrade’s cases. With Watson, he had stabilized, focused. Watson seemed to truly care about him, diagnosis and past indiscretions notwithstanding. Mycroft had been impressed by John handing the paramedics and hospital doctors the list of Sherlock’s diagnosis, and his sensitivities to medicine. As a result, Sherlock had the best hospital stay in a long time, albeit it being short. He had liked the fact that the underemployed doctor had not taken his deal, tempting as it must have been.

So now he wasn’t sure if he should laugh, or despair that the one person that fit his brother like a glove, that one particular person, was the same that had an enemy in one Sebastian Moran. He remembered a quote, from an author he had read in his youth “I...see coincidence everywhere as an inevitable consequence of the laws of probability, according to which having no unusual coincidence is far more unusual than any coincidence could possibly be.” (Isaac Asimov- “The Planet That Wasn’t”)

He had scoffed at that, believing every coincidence had a scientific explanation that couldn’t be seen by the common person’s eyes. This however, seemed to be either a real coincidence or a cruel trick of fate. Because the man Moran worked for, and seemed consumed by, not only had an obsession with his little brother, but was a true psychopath. Mycroft had gotten the call from Sherlock, who had discovered the man’s real name; James Moriarty, aka Jim O’Doherty, aka Richard Brooks. His brother had been a child when they first met, and was extremely discomfited by the experience. He had been tormented by nightmares he did not want to disclose to his parents or to Mycroft himself. Mycroft in an attempt to help him conquer the bad dreams, and push back the impending depression that he felt hovering over his younger brother, taught Sherlock a memory technique, guiding him to create a Mind Palace, where he could store or lock away memories. Sherlock succeeded beyond Mycroft’s expectations and successfully locked O’Doherty’s obsessions deep in the files of such Palace.

A year or so after the incident, Sherlock started to show a budding interest in solving crime, the first opportunity coming in the form of the drowning of one Carl Powers, Sherlock was adamant he had been murdered, as his shoes never appeared. Mycroft had not investigated the occurrence, as at the time he was at Cambridge. Little brother managed to alert the authorities in school and in the town to his suspicions. 

Half a decade later, the man known until then as Jim O'Doherty, found his biological father and changed his name to James Moriarty. He would later file an “artistic name”, Richard Brooks. It was under this name that a decade after meeting Sherlock, Moriarty had filled his flat with pictures and news articles about him. 

Moriarty was a dangerous man. Priding himself on being a ‘consultant criminal’, he had kept his hands clean, and built a fortune, by taking his father’s place in his business, and working for very select, high end clients on his own. As a result he had quite a few big name people, who could not afford to see him in jail, where he could talk. It was known that he was being “detained”, but Mycroft could not keep him permanently, without any proof against him. The man had agreed to leave the country, an auto expatriation of sorts, for three years, with Moran. He asked for one thing; information about Sherlock. Mycroft was between a rock and a hard place. He was running out of time. How could he keep Sherlock safe? 

[ Nathan Wagner - Hope (Lyrics) ](https://youtu.be/seT9aTDDET8)

Back in Dublin, in their room, Sherlock was concerned about what they had discovered; John reassured him that Mycroft would most probably know how to proceed. “He has the MI5 and the MI6 at his beck and call. He also has one Army Captain and a ton of resources. We are not alone, love. We can enjoy this, tonight. Let’s order in. I’ll take the first shower and then we can relax, OK?”

John took a quick shower, but Sherlock had apparently needed more time to let go of the day, and took much longer. When he came out, in his pajamas and robe, the food they ordered was already there; Sherlock barely picking at it, preferring to go to John the moment he put down his plate, and kiss him. 

They had a room to themselves, far from home. They kissed, John taking his time on his partner’s neck, licking and kissing and nibbling, feeling Sherlock’s heart speed up, hearing him moan and at times giggle. They stayed on the rug in the little living room, until their touches and kisses heated up, Sherlock was squirming and both of them were panting. John, his heart starting a fire in his body, still not believing his luck that Sherlock wanted this with him. Nonetheless, of the two, John seemed the one better able to think, so he stopped and stood up, taking his lover by the hand and guiding him to the bedroom.

They started the delicious process of undressing each other. They had it down to an art now, their relationship had passed the two month mark, though John still got the thrills when he thought about it; ‘Sherlock Holmes is _my_ _partner_.’ He had also been inexplicably touched when Donovan and Anderson got into a screaming match due to an issue of proper procedure, and Sherlock had said, “You may want to reconsider your choices, when ‘the Freak’s’ boyfriend treats him so much better than your own treats you.” Sally had not had any witty comebacks to that. 

John kissed Sherlock and made sure he was comfortable. Sherlock was very sensitive, it had taken some practice for them to get things just right. He needed a firm touch, and little foreplay, since that tended to over sensitize him. There had been no more penetration after that first time, Sherlock never mentioning it or requesting it, so they had used hands, and mouths, and different locations. 

John had him in his mouth, alternating between sucking and licking him. He sucked on the tip of his cock, laving his way down the shaft of it to mouth the bollocks, and the puckered ring of muscle beyond. 

This elicited some filthy sounding moans, the kind Sherlock rarely gave into. “What? John?” 

“Just playing love.” As he continued the task in hand, he turned Sherlock on his stomach, grabbing that arse with greedy hands, his tongue circling his guy’s rim, and going in. More of those delicious moans. John found himself incredibly turned on. He could do this all day. Sherlock whimpered. “John, John, stop!”

He stopped immediately. “Are you alright, love?”

“I want you inside me.” Sherlock whispered.

“Say again, love” John wanted to be sure.

“I would like you to - fuck me.” Sherlock was flushed and sweaty.

John smiled. The word sounded alien in his mouth. He caressed Sherlock’s back, his cheeks, his hard thighs. 

“Sweetheart, I don’t want you hurt. That takes preparation, and we haven’t…"

“I did. In the shower. I've read some articles, seen some videos, for research.” Sherlock confessed, his voice quiet. “I’m ready, John.”

The thought of Sherlock watching gay porn, and opening himself up in the shower, made most of his blood rush south, and he had to breath against the dizziness. “How should we do it then love?” John asked, and Sherlock turned around, lay on his back. John sat between Sherlock’s open legs and kissed his thigh, making Sherlock tremble. He slicked his hands with lube, blew on his hands to warm it up. Then he engaged one hand in caressing Sherlock’s perineal area, rubbing with just the right pressure. The other hand gently introduced a finger through the rim of flesh that he indeed found had been opened somewhat.

“John! I’m ready, get on with it!” Sherlock sounded nervous and aroused.

“It’s your first time. I want it to be more pleasure than pain.” John remembered Sherlock saying men had wanted to take this from him. He wanted his detective to feel cherished. His own over enthusiastic, weeping cock could wait.

Sherlock proved impatient, thrusting up against John’s fingers, so John slicked himself, and Sherlock’s arse, and introduced the tip of his cock. Not an easy task, as the entrance was tight, and his control wanted to falter, but he remembered the discomfort, and Sherlock’s stillness and shallow breath, at the introduction of just the tip, told him he could feel it too.

“Breathe love, big breaths. I’m going all in, it’s what worked for me. Then, I’ll wait for you to tell me when to move.” John gave a carefully calculated thrust. Sherlock yelped anyway.

“No! Don’t pull out! I...just need air.” Sherlock was pale and soft. John couldn’t kiss his lips as he would have liked, but kissed all reachable parts of him. “It’s alright if you need to stop. We can always try again,” John started.

“Shut up, just shhh.” Sherlock started rocking upwards, a pained expression on his beautiful face. John adjusted his position, and at Sherlock’s next shallow thrust, he yelped, having found what he was looking for, and did it again, and again. His cock hardened fast, and finally, John started moving. Sherlock started moaning in earnest, his arms flailing, his hand grabbing on to his curls. his voice went high, his eyes unfocused. “John! Oh mon Dieu!” “père tout-puissant!” “Harder!, harder!” It was all so arousing, John couldn’t think, he instinctively slowed down some, and held Sherlock’s arms down a bit, applying some pressure, letting him catch his breath.

“John, I need to come, please!”

“Oh God, yes!”

John took him in his hand, and stroke as he thrust. Sherlock came, his face a portrait of pleasure, arching his body up, almost knocking John off. The Captain was done for when he saw his partner, his face a portrait of pleasure and debauchery , and felt the muscles contract and squeeze him, and came hard, his mind wiping out. He came back to Sherlock pulling him towards his body desperately, his breath hitching, trying to roll into himself. John disengaged and Sherlock curled into a ball, breath shallow and too fast. His face in John’s chest. He was trembling. 

“Hey,” said John, hugging him, getting the curls out of his eyes. “I’m here. I got you. You are not alone.” He was happy to have thought of bringing wipes, he took them from the nightstand, and cleaned Sherlock up, as best he could, him being in a ball. He cleaned himself up and hugged his detective, covering them both with a blanket. Eventually, the trembling stopped. 

“Are you OK?”

“Yes, more than OK. That was…”

“It was, wasn’t it? Spectacular! Amazing!”

“I think this was the best ever. That was wonderful.” 

They got up then, to tidy up. John decided to make some tea, to get some sugar into Sherlock. Seeing his man step out to the covered front porch, to sneak a cigarette, changed his mind in favour of a last whiskey neat. 

“I have no words, John. I never thought that sex could be all that. This last month. I didn’t know we could be this. That I could have this with you. It’s difficult to think that we just started, yet I could have already put you in danger, just by not being able to leave your side."

"Well I for one, think it is good you can’t leave my side. You think I’m scared of confronting Moriarty? I’m not. I would be more scared of letting him hurt people, as he would to get to you. Sherlock, I am an army Captain, I have special ops training and I’m a crack shot. You have the genius, the strategy, the connections. Together, we can pull this off. Don’t leave me to save my life, Sherlock. My life is yours. My place is at your side."

At Baker Street, with no further word from Moriarty, and given Mycroft’s assurances that both he and Moran were, in effect, not in the country, John and Sherlock were able to continue their lives, navigating the waters of their business, the cases, John’s journal, and his shifts at Barts. There were nights running after criminals, or huddled in watch outs, there were hours in NSY, and at the morgue at St. Bartholomew. Molly Hooper had relaxed quite a bit with John and was still shy, but attempted to be friendly. There were nights at 221B when a tall, slim man paced around, quietly, or as he complained or occasionally threw things around. There were experiments, and violin music. And there were cuddles, and love, and a whole lot of sex.

One Sunday, after doing some errands, John came home with groceries, intending to drop them off and join Sherlock at Barts, where he was going over some results for a case where the victim was supposed to have mistaken his medicine with somebody else’s that had been ‘accidentally left’ in the family’s kitchen. Mrs Hudson, stopped him as he came in. “John, dear, please come see me after you put that away, I have something for Sherlock,” she sounded anxious.

John hurriedly put the things away, grabbed his coat for later and went back to Mrs Hudson.

“This was outside when I came back from the bakery. We usually don’t get any post on Sundays, and it immediately felt wrong to me. Sherlock had already left, so I went inside, grabbed a pair of gloves, and brought it in, just as it was. The phone did not even move,” she explained.

“You didn’t have to bring it in, Mrs. Hudson, it’s probably something Sherlock ordered,” John said, though he was trying to convince himself. 

[ Until The Ribbon Breaks - One Way Or Another ](https://youtu.be/xOCDUQ2zuXE)

The package did not have any post stamps, and was wrapped in gift paper. “Sherlock” was artistically written on the package with black ink and the burner phone on top of it. John understood what had raised Mrs Hudson’s suspicions. He also took some gloves and used them to feel the package. Whatever was in there was solid. He didn’t open the package, as it was addressed to Sherlock, but he couldn’t stop himself from picking up the phone. A run of the mill burner phone, with four digit password. John steeled himself and tried 221B. The phone opened. There was one number pre-programmed. Going out to the patio, he pressed the call button. It ringed three times on the other side before Moriarty picked it up.

“Hello sexy. Miss me?” Moriarty’s hateful accent grated John’s nerves.

John controlled his breathing. He wished he could reach out and strangle the man.

“Aw come on, my sweetheart, don’t be like that! Didn’t you like my little present? I kept it for you. A memento, Sherlock. For you. Because you should know when we started playing our game. Are you listening? You are eerily quiet, Sherlock, dear. Best not keep me waiting.” 

“Are you done? Let me clear this right up, you dumb head, Sherlock Holmes is not your sweetheart. He does not miss you and does not need your presents. Furthermore he, we have nothing to say to you.” John barked at him.

“Goodness you are boring Watson, I really fail to understand what in the world Sherlock sees in you. Of course he is mine, I’m a clever, exciting Consulting Criminal. The only one in the world. I can give him lots and lots of work. What can you give him? Orgasms? Boring! Anyone can stimulate a body. I know how to stimulate his mind. You will bore him, sooner than later. Then he will look for me Captain. He will try to make it pass as fighting crime, but you and I know it’s me he wants,” Moriarty said, his voice thick as honey.

John laughed, “You really have no idea what Sherlock is about, do you? And you never will. Sherlock moved on to other cases. He has plenty to occupy his mind these days. He’s not about to go after you on some wild goose chase. At least not on his own.”

“Oh, sorry, was that my cue to pretend to be scared. Alright then, my mouth is making an O and my hands are at either side of my face. ‘Agggh’," he gasped.

“It’s not me you have to be scared of, you sorry excuse of a villain. It’s both of us, we come in a pack. I am a soldier and a warrior; a crack shot. I can also name every bone in your body as I break it. It’s Sherlock though, who will out win you.”

“So loyal of you to say that,” he singsonged, and then his voice changed. “Wake up. I will kill you and I will skin you. John Watson I will burn the heart out of you! And then I will take Sherlock and keep him for my own. He will be happier with me than he ever was with you.”

“That will never happen. You will never have Sherlock. You would have to fight me, and you have no idea just how savage I can get to protect him. You don’t know what you are getting yourself into, targeting Sherlock. He is not alone. He has friends and people who love him. There is a whole army of people on our side. You are alone. Paid thugs and assassins need the money. We have the most vicious motivator of all. Stay the fuck away from Sherlock, if you want to stay alive.”

John ended the call and turned the phone off. He put the package in a carrier bag, and went to meet Sherlock, calling him as he rode in the cab.

At Barts, Sherlock took the package and the phone. John relayed the conversation to him. “I couldn’t help it, Sherlock. I pretty much knew who it was…”

“He must have been furious,” said Sherlock with a little smile and appreciating eyes. “Unfortunately, that will not stop him, John.”

“I know it won’t. But I couldn’t actually kill the idiot, so at least I had my say, “ John said back.

“I will call Mycroft about updating security measures and moving up the operation against Moriarty,” commented Sherlock. Then he zeroed onto the box.

He then opened the ‘present’. A sleek black box, hermetically closed, cold to the touch. Stuck to it an envelope with the same ornate writing, the same name displayed on the front. He unstuck it from the box and set it aside. The box came with a lock, five figures. 

John said, “Can’t be 221B this time.”

Sherlock beamed at him, “It was clever of you to figure that out. Now I believe he chose something more personal to him and I, something from the time we first met. What brought us together were stories. Most of them were… the Grimm Brothers' stories.”

Sherlock entered G R I M M and the box opened. Inside he found a saddle blanket enveloping … “John,” he called.

John came over and looked. “Shoes? Those look like Adidas tennis shoes. Weren’t they popular a while back?” he asked.

“Why would a villain gift me old shoes? What does this have to do with his ‘game’?”

“Any chance these were yours? Maybe he stole them from the stable where you met?" John suggested.

“Me? Use trainers to go to a stable? Nope. Why shoes?”

“Was that the only thing that came in the box? No other clues?”

Sherlock now turned his attention to the card. Which really wasn’t a card at all, but a letter. After opening it carefully, using gloves and a letter opener, he was relieved to find only a piece of paper. It read;

_Dear Sherlock,_

_You have forgotten what we were to each other. It’s alright. I have not. True, you were too young, not ready to be anything other than the hero of the story. Maybe that was suitable after all. Because every hero needs a villain, and I was ever ready to be that for you. Delighted, in fact._

_I looked at you, all that intelligence, so clever, so bright and I knew. I knew you would be someone. Someone that mattered. So at night, when I thought of you, (because I did, Sherlock, I did think of you. You are mine, after all, to serve as fodder for my most private fantasies.) I realised I was clever. As clever as you. What made us different was money, status. I knew then I had to obtain it, to reach a point and a place where I could make my own fortune. And I have. I have the money, I have the name. I promise you dearest, I will get the fame. And you will be mine, you will come to me. Because you triggered my transformation. You made me aware of what I could be! I have spent my time thinking of ways to fulfill your heart’s secret desires, your passions, your...addictions. When the time is right dearest, you will come to me. I never mind taking that one little hitch out of the way to clear your path. We shall meet again my darling. In the meantime, enjoy this memento of one of the transforming moments that guided me to the path I follow today._

_Yours always,_

_Jim._

Sherlock paled when he finished reading and placed the letter in an evidence bag, then offered it to John. As Lestrade walked in, Sherlock said, “I believe these shoes are a souvenir Moriarty kept from a crime he committed. He did not steal the shoes to use them, as they are in almost pristine condition. Therefore, he committed a crime against the shoes’ owner. In order for him to keep the shoes, he most likely killed him. I say 'him', because the model seems one for boys, that were in fashion some 8-9 years ago. They show some sign of light usage, and have what looks like oil stains on the inside. The man I used to know was able to use different plants to make both mixtures to make horses’ coats healthy and shiny, and boys’ skin itchy and irritated. It’s doubtful the stains will yield any evidence now, but I believe the latter was applied. Have the team look for DNA. I have to think about who the victim could be." That said, he left, while John showed the D.I the letter. By the time John was done with Lestrade, there was no Sherlock anywhere in the building. John's calls were not answered, so he texted.

-Where are you, you git? You are supposed to not leave me behind!

-Sherlock! Answer me! I will call your brother and send Lestrade after you!

-Calm down, I’m home. SH

John ran up the stairs at Baker Street, to find a cloud of smoke in the flat. His relief at seeing Sherlock there, smoking, was such he did not even reprimand him. 

“I know whose shoes those are. Carl Powers.The first murder I felt I had to investigate. Jim killed him. He kept those shoes, to send them to me! This is to all means, a confession.”

He turned around and looked at John. “He will not stop. Moriarty issued a direct threat upon you when he said he would clear my path. I will not blame you if you decide to…”

John looked at him, jaw set, position stiff; “Sherlock Holmes do not finish that sentence!”

“He changed the game when he threatened you John. I have talked to Mycroft. He didn’t like it, but he will assemble contingency plans, should there be the need to go against Moriarty. He is anticipating the man is much more powerful than we thought. Moriarty certainly has connections in the United States and probably in Eastern Europe…”

“Sherlock….”

“John, there may be a time when we must separate, when I must go on a mission to eliminate his threat. It will be vital that you remain here, safe under Mycroft’s protection.”

“Holmes, Shut up! Now!“ barked Captain Watson. “There will be no ‘I’ going on a mission, and there sure as hell will not be a John Watson staying under Mycroft’s protection! Have you gone barmy?”

Sherlock turned around to face him, his own face contracted in a grimace, his hands pulling at his hair, “John you need to be safe! You can’t let him get to you! If something happens to you…”

John took his arms down and grabbed his hands, “Sherlock, breathe. Look at me, love. There is so much wrong with what you are proposing. First, you are not alone. You chose to be in a relationship with me. Remember when I told you I am yours? So now your life is not your own. Keep your hands off of it. Let go of any idea about embarking a mission on your own. If it is not safe enough for me, it is not safe enough for you. It is both of us or neither of us. So he said he will burn the heart out of me. Believe me I would rather it burn with you by my side than be left behind, thinking you could be tired or sick, captured, tortured or dead! I couldn’t survive that, Sherlock, you wouldn’t find me here if you left me!”

“He won’t stop John! You saw that room! He has been obsessed for years!”

“We won’t stop either. We won’t let him win. We will work with Mycroft, with your irregulars, gather the NSY, anyone who can help. What we will not do is let him separate us. We will not give him that power. It is the two of us against his web. Sherlock.” John then pulled Sherlock to him, and after a moment of going stiff, of being undecided, Sherlock gave in, and let himself be taken to the couch, where John hugged him and spoke reassurances to him.

In the office in London, Mycroft slammed his hands down on his desk and stood up. Yes he had screwed up. Yes, the man was a bloody spider, with a web so large, it was scary. It was a formidable task to take it down. However he, Mycroft Holmes, was the bloody British Government and the Bloody Ice Man himself. No bastard sod came out of nowhere to threaten his baby brother, and was left unscathed. If there were important people in the palm of Moriarty’s hand, there were even more people, both important and rich, and lowlife and in dire need, that owed their money, their positions, their freedoms and their very lives to Mycroft Holmes. If the spider had declared war and promised destruction to Sherlock, Mycroft would declare war on him and destroy him. He would partner with Sherlock and together they would plan, find the resources, the weapons, and the people that would finish Moriarty, Moran and anyone who dared make Sherlock and his loved ones targets. So Moriarty thought he could dance? That bastard would not know what hit him!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing fan fiction is an opportunity to explore personal and shared "What ifs" with characters we know and love. I enjoy it immensely. That other people find it worthy of checking it out, reading, giving kudos and commenting, just wants to me share even more! Thank you to all the readers and commentors, you make the experience of sharing a reward in itself. The music that goes with this story can be found on the YouTube [ TBOL Playlist ](www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLud3gHG-J9VrNvvwODv_W5nLDqrpyU741)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty and Moran may be away and in hiding, but they are still having an impact in John and Sherlock’s life. All this dedication to the case means no time for more important things! John has been trying to support and help Sherlock, but the constant meetings, and planning, and searching is draining Sherlock. John decides to go to Big Brother for help, and given some much needed intervention, Sherlock will remember which things in life are worth slowing down for! Here comes the happy ending!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A heartfelt thank you to my marvelous betas and friends, [ Dovahlock221](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dovahlock221/pseuds/Dovahlock221) for whom this story was written, though it actually ended up "a bit" different to the one she initially received, and [ Loveismyrevolution ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loveismyrevolution/pseuds/Loveismyrevolution) who helped me with literally last minute editing! Also thank you to my amazing readers! You make this journey so much more fun! I'm grateful to find people do like the visions in my head.

[ RAIGN - Heaven Help Me ](https://youtu.be/lv1KkHR4Q4s)

It wasn’t easy, the waiting. While to their knowledge Moriarty and Moran, disappeared fleeing out the country, as Sherlock said, they could have adopted new identities, new looks and be right under their noses. 

While there was little to do about that, international agencies were not interested in finding and following two individuals who had sworn to achieve worldwide domination, but had yet to commit a crime. Mycroft’s MI6 was infiltrating known criminal cells in the surrounding countries to gain information, documents, plans, anything Sherlock could use to help fortify their small army of people. This would make the people Moriarty had threatened safer, given continued surveillance, were the Consulting Criminal to make himself present in any way. 

John knew Sherlock was anxious, frustrated and discontent. The local cases they worked together didn’t maintain his attention like they used to. He failed to carry through with any kind of self-care. Instead, John tried everything, from cooking Sherlock’s favorite meals, to leaving little treats close to the computer. He often had to fall back on the voice of Captain John Watson, which usually made Sherlock eat the minimum to keep his body alive. Sleep had become a problem, as Sherlock refused to even consider it most nights. Sherlock preferred to work on a complicated map of criminals the agents found and trying to make sense of the placement of those major cells, he was certain, worked with Moriarty. There were also dozens of calls as he had invented a personality who took the credit for many of the crimes committed within the web. John had a feeling that Mycroft and Sherlock even planned out actual crimes, though he didn’t think they would go as far as committing them. As a result of all of this work, Sherlock would at times fall asleep, exhausted, at the table as he ate, or sitting on the couch to spend some rare time with John, both of them ending up asleep in the living room. 

John got so worried, he decided to talk with Mycroft. He made his own way to the Diogenes Club. The opulence of the place gave him a moment of unease, but he was here for Sherlock. As he slipped past the doorman distracted by a courier, he reached what looked like a reception desk.

“Excuse me, I need to..,” he started, but the older man behind the counter promptly shushed him and pointed to the sign on the wall that said: “Silent Room”

“That’s great but I need to speak with Mycroft Holmes.” he insisted.

The receptionist shook his head and signed something at John. “Sorry, I don’t know British Sign Language. I still need to see Mycroft.”

The man wrote out in incredibly stuffy handwriting: “Mr Holmes only sees people he has made proper appointments with. He does not have one scheduled. You must leave and make an appointment.”

John used a louder voice, “Nope, not happening. Mycroft is here, and I will get louder and louder until I can see him!”

The receptionist touched a button on the intercom, and whispered to John, “Sir, I’m going to have to call the police!”

“Oh, go ahead, the whole of the New Scotland Yard is my friend!” John yelled.

A flustered Mycroft hurried towards John, “Dr Watson! This display of childish behaviour can only mean my brother’s manners are rubbing off on you. Stop the noise and come along then.”

“Finally!“ he said, “I wouldn’t have come, you know, if I weren’t worried about your brother. You have to help me find a way for him to relax. He is going to wear himself out before Moriarty ever makes a move!” John fretted.

“I have seen how much weight he has lost and how horribly he has been behaving. Even Lestrade, who has proved extraordinarily patient with him, has complained to me about his temper. Unfortunately, at this point, John, everything is a waiting game. Moriarty and his pal are hidden away. I had reports from Norway, that he had found his organization there destroyed by our intelligence agents and had a fit. Reports from Thailand, where he had initially gone before being captured by us the first time, said he and Moran were fighting constantly. Apparently, Moran wanted to go further East to avoid the British Government, but Moriarty wouldn’t hear of it, wanting to come back to England.” Mycroft said.

“That psychopath is still obsessed with Sherlock. Mycroft, he won’t stop until he gets him. What are we going to do?”

“Whatever is needed to keep you two safe, John. We are not sitting idly. My men are actively infiltrating his territory, we have Sherlock working as a remote “Consultant” that will challenge Moriarty.”

“Mycroft, whatever plan you and Sherlock agree on, you are not to send him alone. Do you hear me? It’s the two of us together, or neither of us.” John half ordered, half pleaded.

“John, we had considered that before, but after you two came back from Dublin, Sherlock nixed the plan. Frankly, I would be reluctant to send him out by himself. He is a Consulting Detective, not an MI6 operative, or an assassin, no matter what he says. As much as he feels responsible for that maniac’s obsession with him, he is better off here, where we can fight against him together.”

“Is it possible for you to ‘fake’ some kind of bait situation? Send us away somewhere safe, with him believing Moriarty would follow us? Send a couple of men with us so he believes it?” John asked.

“John. You know my brother. Do you really think he won’t see through that in an instant?” Mycroft asked.

“It’s worth a try, Mycroft. He won’t eat, he won’t sleep, I’m not working, because the thought of what he could get up to alone in the flat makes my stomach fall. There has to be a way to help him. Defeating Moriarty won’t be a victory if Sherlock is half dead from fighting him.” John looked at him expectantly.

Mycroft looked back. “I’ll see what I can do, John. Let me set something in motion."

  
  
  


Sitting at Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen table, the following week, Mycroft had to admit the lady could bake. Her raspberry turnovers were truly in a league of their own. Sherlock had made a fuss about them. 

“Mrs Hudson, you did not have to go out of your way to feed my brother. He has his own private baker at his humble home. Your energy is better channeled making cinnamon rolls and those orange scones John likes.”

“Oh Sherlock, I bake all kinds of goodies for my boys. Once in a while it is nice to bake for a guest," she said as she gave Mycroft a small smile and went to call her sister, so the brothers could talk.

“Very well, Brother Dear, now that you have stuffed yourself with treats made by my landlady, you can tell me why my John went to see you last week.”

“He told you? Didn’t he share why he went trampling into the Diogenes Club then?” Mycroft asked.

“Of course not. He came home looking weary, but convinced that he did a good job fooling me, as if he didn’t look like he always does when he goes to see you. Annoyed and guilty.” Sherlock said.

“He is worried, Sherlock. Worried about you leaving him to pursue Moriarty. Worried about your and his security here. Your obsessive behaviour with the case has led him to believe danger is imminent, when we both know we are probably in for the long run, as Moriarty will want to fatten his accounts and strengthen his connections before he comes back to joust with you.” Mycroft responded.

“I have explained it all to John. I told him we are safe for the moment, that our agents will let us know if Moriarty becomes visible. I discovered his and Moran’s aliases, the numbers of his accounts in at least four countries, there will be some alarms when he makes a move towards England. John should not worry!”

“John is a clever man, but he does not have your genius. This threat worries him so much that he can’t go to work leaving you alone here. He fears Moriarty’s people will either take you, or take him from the clinic, therefore pushing you into action. He seemed to be in quite a state of anxiety, brother. It would be best you see to it. We don’t want him to have a breakdown so early on. Then he would have to be left behind in any scenario.” Mycroft looked at Sherlock earnestly “...he even suggested a ‘bait’ situation, to bring Moriarty out of hiding and deal with him.”

“What? You are never to agree to something like that, Mycroft! John must never be bait! Not by himself, and not with me! I can’t lose him! In any case, Moriarty will not show himself until he is prepared. According to my calculations it will take him at least another year and a half, and that if our interference doesn’t stop his negotiations before he ever gets here. I for one, am confident that with a few tweaks, my Siegurson persona can mess with his plans.” Sherlock stated.

“While those plans seem worthy of following up on, Brother, we must still address Dr Watson. By talking with him, he seems to be affected by your immersion in the case. He wants his partner back. Your prolonged intensity on this subject is scaring him into thinking you do not need him, or that you will break away and go looking for the spider on your own.”

Sherlock was pacing in Mrs Hudson’s living room, hands in prayer position, “So you think it’s wise we actually go through with the ‘bait’ situation? As a- what, a  _ holiday _ ?" His nose was scrunched.

“Well brother, think of it this way. You have been romantically involved with the good doctor for close to six months now. Were we to detect some suspicious movement from Moriarty, and decide you should try to draw him out, I have an acquaintance who can accommodate you, in order to make a portion of this waiting period into, well - a honeymoon.” Said Mycroft, rolling his eyes and affecting an exaggerated shudder.

Sherlock, who had seemed about to protest, lightened up, and smiled, “A sex holiday! Before Moriarty’s actual appearance makes such a thing impossible! Mycroft you are brilliant! Shall I talk to John? Or do you want to kidnap him and give him the news yourself?”

  
  


In the end, Sherlock told John, of course, making it sound as if it was Mycroft’s imposition. He tried to convey the possibility of actually attracting Moriarty to them, while also reassuring John they would be protected. 

“So you see John, we will, for all purposes be a couple on their long due honeymoon…” he started.

“Which we will be,” said John, a wide smile on his face.

“Well, we will, and Mycroft will strategically let some people know that we are out of the country, which could mean, that the English government could loosen their protective measures for us. This could bring Moriarty out to look for us. However, we will be surrounded by agents, and the local authorities will be advised that you are a VIP. All security measures will be in place.”

“So while we wait for Moriarty to find us, we will be hidden away in some far away place?" John asked, delighted to for once be on the know, without Sherlock catching on. 

“Not just any faraway island, John. It seems Mycroft can be made silly by sentiment in his middle age. He seems to think we have spent significant time together, perhaps because I have not ever wanted to be with someone, as I want to be with you. He has arranged for us to stay in the GoldenEye Resort in Jamaica. This the actual birthplace of your favorite screen character, James Bond. We will be staying in an exclusive Lagoon Villa, for three weeks, at the end of which, if Moriarty has not found us and if I have not perished of boredom, we shall rejoin Mycroft to continue our plans.” Sherlock stopped pacing around the living room and looked up at John.

John could barely contain his smile. ‘The actual GoldenEye Resort!’, he thought, ‘Maybe Mycroft actually does like us being a couple.’

John said, “Excuse me, did you just suggest I am too boring to keep you entertained for three weeks? The two of us together ona tropical island?” John asked as he walked toward the detective, who was blinking at him.

“John?” he asked, stepping back and falling on the sofa.

“You deserve a punishment!” John said, smiling and proceeded to tickle him. Sherlock tried first to escape, then to tickle back then to reach for John’s neck, pull him towards himself, and kiss the impossible army doctor, who had some very not boring activities to offer.

  
  


Private accommodations, private jet, private security on the premises. John enjoyed all the benefits of the first class private aeroplane. He kept up a chat with the flight attendants and with the copilot, also army, who came out of the cabin to talk. Sherlock sulked. He disappeared into the private compartment. When John asked him what he had been doing he answered.

“I didn’t have the patience to talk to idiots, so I went to the room and watched a documentary about XV century torture devices. You should have seen it. Truly, John the mechanics and the ideas behind the apparatus, are astounding!”

“Wow, love of mine, what a romantic way to prepare for our honeymoon,” commented John. 

“Why should I prepare for our honeymoon? We have already been living together, working together and having sex. It is assumed by now you like me as I am, so why prepare something you might not like? It is better to remain recognizable.”

“Love, I will like you even covered in the remains of your experiments, dressed up, dressed down, cross dressed, anyway! You know that trying new things together will be fun!” John assured him.

“I will take your word for it, John. Do not be surprised if I am better than you are at new things. You must know, if you intend to scuba dive, or hike, or play games of chance, I will not be new at any of them.” Sherlock said seriously.

[ Animal - Troye Sivan ](https://youtu.be/OVQvol7BLmE)

When the aeroplane landed at the Ian Fleming International Airport a limousine picked them up and took them to their Villa. John exclaimed he had never been in a place like it and it was true for Sherlock, too.

John’s absolute delight, once the drivers left and the assistants had completed the check in forms on their handheld computers and followed suit, was all Sherlock needed to see.

“Sherlock!” he said, wide-eyed and smiling. "Look at everything we can do! There is water right there on our front porch! We could roll out of bed and jump in the lake! We can go to the beach! We can go snorkeling and mountain climbing! We can sunbathe…” John wiggled his eyebrows and nudged Sherlock’s shoulder, “...naked!” He proceeded to drop his clothes. “Now will you stop sulking and come with me to start our holiday? One more activity I want to fit in lots of!” 

“Alright John, as long as we are together, lets start our sex holiday…” Sherlock went to John, and kissed him, while John opened up his shirt buttons.

“...in a while, we can go on the boat excursion, look at the sea life.” John said, hurriedly untucking the back of Sherlock’s shirt.

“Frankly, John, I was hoping you would go deeper… snorkeling maybe, or deepsea diving.” Sherlock was grinning.

John pulled his lover’s trousers and pants down. “Oh, you are about to go deep!” And John dropped on his knees and swallowed him whole. John hummed and sucked, bobbing his head up and down, making Sherlock moan, “God John!” After a short while of his enthusiastic licking, and kissing and laving the shaft from top to bottom, Sherlock struggled to form words, “John, m’gonna fall,” right before his knees faltered. John took him to the bed, and was ready to finish what he started, but Sherlock got on hands and knees and looked over his shoulder. 

“I want you inside me, John.” he said grinning.

“Are you sure, love? We don’t have to. I love every…”

“John, while you exhausted yourself talking with the aeroplane personnel, and then fell asleep, I took advantage of our suite’s loo and prepared for this.”

“You prepared… with your own fingers?” John’s cock enthusiastically approved of this.

“Amongst other things. You didn’t check why my suitcase wouldn’t close up. I might have purchased an aid or two,” Sherlock said, “for experimentation purposes, obviously.”

John stood, frozen, with a smile on his face. 

Sherlock frowned. “John? Are you joining me?”

John did. Remembering the after-shock on both prior occasions, he tried to be extra cautious and move at a slower, gentler pace. Even so, Sherlock whimpered, shook his head. Then he disengaged. “Can we try it differently?” he asked John.

“Or we can do something else…”

“Can you lie down?” When John did, Sherlock kissed him, licked his neck, tasted his scar, while his hands caressed his legs. He sat up and slicked John’s cock again, then placed himself above it and lowered himself carefully on it. ‘Glorious, oh God this is glorious’, thought John. All the sensations, the heat, the tightness. He opened his eyes and saw Sherlock’s face. He was sitting up straight, his back arched a little, his hands splayed open to the sides, eyes closed, lips about to smile, looking like an angel about to spread his wings. 

Then he opened his eyes, the smile turned wicked, he started moving oh so slowly. He leaned forwards and wet his hand with a naughty tongue, and rolled the palm over John’s nipple, then flicked it with his fingers, then pinched it. Sherlock put his arms down at each side of John’s body, and thrust on him, hard and fast, four five times, then stopped, sat up and reached back, to play with John’s bollocks. When John moaned, Sherlock gave a hard thrust, just one. 

“Sh-Sherlock,” said John, and oh how Sherlock enjoyed seeing John come undone, and it was for him! Because of him. The curly man passed his hands over his lover’s chest, following the outline of his scar. He kissed him, and moved purposefully surrounding him. Shallow movements as he contracted his muscles. The noises John made, they were, quite arousing, and when John wrapped his legs around his hips, he changed Sherlock’s position a bit, so each time he bounced, John’s cock rubbed his prostate. 

Sherlock let go. Making the best of the strength of his legs, his hands on his lover’s chest, he bounced mercilessly on him, eyes closed, head thrown back, making grunting and high pitched noises to go along with John’s. The doctor, gasping and digging his hands into Sherlock’s legs and hips, “Fuck! Sherlock I’m going t…” Sherlock changed the angle a bit, and when John’s cock hit his overstimulated prostate, he shouted out, and came untouched, a copious emision, that shot out and landed on John’s belly in a display hotter than any porn or fantasy John could ever imagine, and as he came, Sherlock’s body contracted, bringing John to his conclusion as well. 

“That was… amazing… absolutely… amazing,” declared John between breaths.

“You...think so?” questioned Sherlock, hair gone crazy, body flushed pink, sweaty, as he plopped himself.

“Don’t you know so, silly git?” 

“Maybe, maybe I need a repeat.” smiled Sherlock slyly.

“A repeat?! You  _ never _ repeat yourself,” said John, feigning surprise, “and I thought we could experiment with those aids you snuck in the country, but if you are not up to it…”

[ Sheppard - Geronimo ](https://youtu.be/E-SeaCZE2TM)

Sherlock smiled, and put his head on John’s chest. When he woke up, they were a mess. He was stuck to his partner, who was still asleep. He had thought about it; Moriarty. Before, he would have found him irresistible: enigmatic, genius, a puzzle maker. Now he was a danger to John, a threat to the life they were making together. It was not a game, not a dance. Gone were his early plans to go solo on a mission with Mycroft’s help. Sherlock could now see the many ways that plan could backfire. In order to keep himself, John, and their friends and families safe, they would need his people: Mycroft, Lestrade, Wiggins, the homeless network, Molly and all the help they could get to work together, against Moriarty, Moran and anyone who dare threaten them, or London. They would go back, and plan, and work, and win. Yes, they would. 

Now though, they had three weeks of sex holiday and “trying new things,” starting with…

Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and tugged, “Wh..? Sherlock? What the bloody fuck? What are you doing? We are starkers, and filthy!”

Sherlock said nothing, but continued to pull on his arm. John stood up, tripping over himself, and Sherlock started to run. John caught on and laughed.

Sherlock yelled, “Ready John? Three, Two, One..,” they ran, hand in hand and jumped into the cool, green, water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all she wrote! We leave our men together, happy and with the prospect of future danger, in the support and company of their family and friends! Thank you so much for sharing this happier, loving version of them with me! Kudos and comments help validate my belief that some people might share my liking for these stories of mine.  
> Finally, for anyone interested, here is the [ TBOL Playlist ](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLud3gHG-J9VrNvvwOD_W5nLDqrpyU741) on YouTube.

**Author's Note:**

> The idea of a besotted John is so very tempting to me. I couldn't help myself, when I heard "Da Vinci", I can't stop thinking of this John, staring at Sherlock in awe! So you can find the songs that inspired this little story at YouTube, [ TBOL Playlist. ](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?lost=PLud3gHG-J9VrNvvwODv_W5nLDqrpyU74I)  
> Please note, that I tend to come up with great ideas after I already uploaded a draft. Therefore, I end up with errors my long suffering and very patient Betas are not responsible for. Feel free to let me know if you see a goof up.


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